THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SONGS  IN    THE 
COMMON  CHORD 


By  Amelia  £.  Barr 

The  Paper  Cap 

An  Orkney  Maid 

Christine 

Joan 

Profit  and  Loss 

Three  Score  and  Ten 

The  Measure  of  a  Man 

The  Winning  of  Lucia 

Playing  with  Fire 

All  the  Days  of  My  Life 

Songs  in  the  Common  Chord 

D.      APPLETON      AND      COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 

188  H 


SONGS     IN     THE 
COMMON  CHORD 

SONGS   FOR   EVERYONE   TO   SING, 

TUNED   TO   THE  C  MAJOR   CHORD 

OF   THIS   LIFE 

BY 

AMELIA  E.  BARR 

iUTHOR  OF  "THE  BOW  OF  ORANGE  RIBBON," 

"JOAN,"  "ALL  THE  DAYS  OF  MY  LIFE," 

"THE  PAPER  CAP,"  ETC. 

INTRODUCTION  BY 

JOSEPH  C.  LINCOLN 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

MCMXIX 


COPYRIGHT,  1919.  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


"I  SAY  TO  MY  MAKER 
THANKS,  FOR  THE  DAY'S  WORK 
THAT  MY  LORD  GIVES  ME."  Beowulf 


2227795 


INTRODUCTION 
BY  JOSEPH  C.  LINCOLN 

A  hundred  humble  songsters  trill 
The  notes  that  to  their  lays  belong, 

Where  just  one  nightingale  might  fill 
The  place  with  its  transcendent  song. 

Fame  comes  to  men,  and  with  its  smile 
A   soul   with  lasting  greatness  cloaks, 

And  leaves  a  thousand  else  the  while 

To  be  for  aye  just  common  folks. 
***** 

Fate  has  not  lifted  them  above 

The  level  of  the  human  plane; 
They  share  with  men  a  fellow-love 

In  touch  with  pleasure  and  with  pain. 
One  great,  far-reaching  brotherhood, 

With  common  burdens,  common  yokes, 
And  common  wrongs  and  common  good — 

God's  army  of  just  common  folks. 
From  "A  Book  of  Verses,"  by  NIXON  WATERMAN. 

After  all,  what  or  who  is  it  that  makes  this 
world  go  and  keep  on  going?  Not  the  world  of 
the  astronomer  whirling  through  space,  but  the 
everyday  world  we  live  in,  the  world  of  affairs, 
little  as  well  as  big,  the  world  of  daily  tasks,  of 
vii 


INTRODUCTION 
BY  JOSEPH  C.  LINCOLN 

A  hundred  humble  songsters  trill 
The  notes  that  to  their  lays  belong, 

Where  just  one  nightingale  might  fill 
The  place  with  its  transcendent  song. 

Fame  comes  to  men,  and  with  its  smile 
A  soul  with  lasting  greatness  cloaks, 

And  leaves  a  thousand  else  the  while 

To  be  for  aye  just  common  folks. 

***** 

Fate  has  not  lifted  them  above 

The  level  of  the  human  plane; 
They  share  with  men  a  fellow-love 

In  touch  with  pleasure  and  with  pain. 
One  great,  far-reaching  brotherhood, 

With  common  burdens,  common  yokes, 
And  common  wrongs  and  common  good — 

God's  army  of  just  common  folks. 
From  "A  Book  of  Verses,"  by  NIXON  WATERMAN. 

After  all,  what  or  who  is  it  that  makes  this 
world  go  and  keep  on  going?  Not  the  world  of 
the  astronomer  whirling  through  space,  but  the 
everyday  world  we  live  in,  the  world  of  affairs, 
little  as  well  as  big,  the  world  of  daily  tasks,  of 
vii 


J 


Vlll  INTRODUCTION 

bread  and  butter,  of  laughter  and  tears,  of  work 
and  play,  of  bitter  and  sweet — who,  among  us 
mortals,  do  the  most  to  keep  that  world  spinning 
on  and  on  and  on?  All  help,  of  course,  including 
the  very  high  and  the  very  low,  but  high  or  low 
count  for  little  in  comparison  with  the  multi 
tude  between,  those  of  whom  Mr.  Waterman 
sings  in  his  poem,  the  mighty  multitude  of  every 
day  men  and  women  who  are  neither  rich  nor 
poor,  neither  geniuses  nor  imbeciles,  neither 
saints  nor  criminals — but  just  "common  folks." 

John  Jones  keeps  the  grocery  in  Jonesville. 
It  isn't  a  very  big  grocery  store,  for  Jonesville 
is  not  a  very  big  place,  but  it  supplies  the  necessi 
ties  of  life  to  the  people  of  the  village  and  the 
neighborhood.  John  Jones  is  not,  largely  speak 
ing,  an  important  personage  in  comparison  with 
King  Solomon  or  Socrates,  Julius  Caesar  or 
Shakespeare,  or  Washington,  to  mention  at  ran 
dom  a  few  fixed  stars  scattered  about  the  firma 
ment,  he  would  not  shine  nor  even  twinkle.  As 
a  financier  he  is  no  Rothschild,  as  a  tradesman 
he  is  far  from  being  a  merchant  prince.  John 
Jones  of  Jonesville  is  distinctly  not  a  superman. 

And  yet  John  Jones  is  just  as  distinctly  a  valu 
able  asset  to  the  world  in  which  he  lives.  Though 
not  a  Solomon,  he  is  far  from  being  a  fool; 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

though  not  a  Rothschild  he  is  far  from  being  a 
waster  or  a  spendthrift.  His  is  a  good  grocery 
store  and  he  takes  a  pride  in  it  and  its  reputation. 
He  is  a  good  citizen,  a  member  of  the  board  of 
selectmen  in  his  town,  a  director  of  the  bank,  a 
churchgoer  whose  pew  rent  is  promptly  paid. 
He  is  a  good  husband,  a  kind  father,  a  pleasant 
neighbor.  The  house  in  which  he  lives  is  not 
permitted  to  fall  for  lack  of  paint,  the  grass  in 
his  yard  is  cut  when  it  should  be. 

Mrs.  John  Jones  is  a  fitting  mate  for  her  hus 
band.  She  manages  his  household  as,  in  her 
opinion,  a  household  should  be  managed.  She 
rears  their  children  as  she  thinks  children  should 
be  reared.  She  sees  that  they  are  clean  and  re 
spectably  dressed,  that  they  are  diligent  in  school, 
and  in  their  seats  at  Sunday  School  on  the  Sab 
bath.  She  attends  the  sewing-circle,  is  a  member 
of  the  Grange,  or  the  Village  Improvement  So 
ciety,  or  the  Neighborhood  Club.  She  is  thrifty 
and  industrious,  and  eminently  sensible  and  self- 
respecting. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Jones  are  not  "up"  in  lit 
erature  or  art.  That  is  to  say,  they  do  not  pride 
themselves  upon  possessing  lofty  and  discerning 
knowledge  concerning  these  things.  They  read 
and  they  like  to  look  at  pictures,  but  they  make 


x  INTRODUCTION 

no  pretense  at  discovering  hidden  meanings  in 
an  author's  lines,  nor  do  they  speak  "soulfully" 
of  "depth"  and  "handling"  and  "atmosphere." 
"I  like  that,"  says  John  Jones,  when  a  story  or 
a  poem  appeals  to  him.  "That's  awfully  pretty, 
isn't  it  ?"  says  Mrs.  Jones,  when  a  painting  strikes 
her  fancy.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Jones  are,  you 
see,  plain  people,  with  simple,  plain,  unpretending 
tastes.  But  their  tastes  are  human,  very  human, 
and  they  and  their  kind  make  up — and  we  may 
thank  God  for  it — the  great  bulk  of  humanity 
in  this  country  and  in  others. 

It  was  for  the  John  Jones  families  of  this 
world  that  Amelia  Barr  wrote.  She,  too,  was 
a  simple,  human  woman,  with  simple,  human 
feelings  and  without  the  slightest  pretense  of 
being  anything  else.  One  has  only  to  read  her 
autobiography,  "All  the  Days  of  My  Life,"  to 
realize  this.  She  thought  in  a  simple,  plain- 
people's  way  and  in  that  way  she  wrote.  Her 
novels  contain  no  "problems,"  they  were  not  in 
volved,  labored  attempts  at  depressing  so-called 
realism.  They  were  simply-told  stories  which 
all  might  understand  and  which  millions  have 
read  and  loved. 

She  shared,  with  many  of  her  devoted  readers, 
a  religious  belief  which  was  more  than  a  be- 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

lief,  it  was  a  conviction.  In  reading  the  story 
of  her  life  as  she  tells  it  one  is  astonished  and 
impressed  to  see  how  absolute  was  her  trust  in 
her  God  as  a  loving,  all-wise  father,  who  di 
rected  her  every  act  and  chastened  or  blessed 
her  as  seemed  best  in  His  sight.  One  who  reads 
that  harrowing,  pitiful  chapter  which  describes 
those  dreadful  days  in  Galveston  when  the  yel 
low  fever  scourge  carried  off  her  husband  and 
two  children,  will  understand  what  is  meant. 
An  invisible  hand  raps  three  times  upon  the 
closed  shutters  of  her  room  as  a  warning  of  the 
coming  of  Death  to  that  household  and  the  toll 
to  be  taken  from  it.  A  dying  boy  sees  a  vision 
of  "the  man  in  the  next  room"  who  is  waiting 
for  him.  Mrs.  Barr  believed,  not  as  most  of  us 
would  have  done,  that  the  child  was  delirious; 
she  believed  that  he  had  seen  a  vision  and  that  a 
spirit  was  in  that  next  room  waiting  for  the 
little  soul  who  might  be  lonely  without  a  guide 
and  helper. 

All  her  long  life  she  carried  her  problems  to 
this  God,  this  loving  personal  friend  and  father 
in  whom  she  so  devoutly  believed  and  that  this 
belief  helped  her  over  the  dark  places  no  one 
can  doubt.  Her  faith  and  her  work  were  her 
two  great  joys,  these  and  the  love  of  her  family. 


Xll  INTRODUCTION 

She  was  an  amazingly  prolific  writer.  Over 
sixty  novels  were  written  by  her  during  a  period 
of  less  than  forty  years.  And  in  addition  hun 
dreds  of  verses.  Over  her  desk,  as  a  daily  re 
minder  and  motto,  she  kept  these  lines,  written  by 
Beowulf  in  the  year  600  A.D. : 

"I  say  to  my  Maker, 
Thanks,  for  the  day's  work 
That  my  Lord  gives  me." 

They  express  her  faith  and  attitude  of  mind 
perhaps  as  well  as  anything  could  do.  She  wor 
shipped  and  she  worked  and  faith  and  work 
were  alike  those  of  the  simple,  everyday  people 
of  this  world. 

Concerning  her  poetry  she  herself  says: 
"From  among  the  hundreds  of  poems  I  have 
written  during  forty  years  I  have  saved  enough 
to  make  a  small  volume  which  some  day  I  may 
publish.  But  I  never  considered  myself  a  poetess 
in  any  true  sense  of  the  word.  'The  vision  and 
faculty  divine'  was  not  mine ;  but  I  had  the  most 
extraordinary  command  of  the  English  language 
and  I  could  easily  versify  a  good  •  thought,  and 
tune  it  to  the  Common  Chord — the  C  Major  of 
this  life.  Women  sang  my  songs  about  their 
houses,  and  men  at  their  daily  work  and  some 


INTRODUCTION  Xlll 

of  them  went  all  around  the  world  in  the  news 
papers.  The  Tree  God  Plants  No  Wind  Can 
Hurt'  I  got  in  a  Bombay  paper;  and  'Get  the 
Spindle  and  Distaff  Ready  and  God  Will  Send 
the  Flax'  came  back  to  me  in  a  little  Australian 
weekly.  And  for  fifteen  years  I  made  an  income 
of  a  thousand  dollars  or  more  every  year  from 
them.  So  if  they  were  not  poetry  they  evidently 
'got  there.'  " 

They  did,  of  course,  for  they  expressed  the 
thoughts  of  the  multitude,  the  songs  in  the  hearts 
of  the  plain  people,  the  Joneses  and  their  kind, 
whose  straight  thinking  and  practical  living  keep 
this  everyday  world  turning  regularly  and  sanely. 
In  countless  scrap-books  these  verses  of  Mrs. 
Barr's  have  been  treasured.  Now  they  are  of 
fered  in  a  more  permanent  form  to  those  of  us 
who  fill  the  ranks  in, 

"God's  army  of  just  common  folks." 

JOSEPH  C.  LINCOLN. 


CONTENTS 

MM 

INTRODUCTION vj, 

THE  GREAT  HAPPINESS i 

THE  OLD  PIANO  ......'...  2 

MY  LITTLE  BROWN  PIPE • 

HELP 6 

COME  HOME,  CHILDREN 

FADED  BLUEBELLS 9 

THE  ALBUM 1 1 

PATCHWORK '.'•'..  13 

IN  THE  GARDEN 15 

LOST  FLOWERS .     ,  16 

THE  EMPTY  PURSE .  18 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  VALENTINE     .     .     .     .     .    '.     .  19 

THE  OLD  WIFE'S  VALENTINE    .     .     .     .     .     .     .  21 

AT  FIFTY  YEARS ."."..  23 

THE  OLD  REAPER     .     .     .     ..".'.     .     .     .     .  24 

HER  MAJESTY  CHRISTINE >€  26 

THE  LITTLE  TRAVELER 27 

A  TAP  AT  THE  DOOR 29 

TO-DAY  AND  TO-MORROW     .     .     .     .   ' .     .     .     .  31 

ONLY  A  LOCK  OF  HAIR 32 

"PANSIES  FOR  THOUGHTS"       .......  34 

A  DEPARTURE 36 

QUIET  HOURS 37 

NOT  LONG  AGO 39 

AN  OLD  STREET 40 

MAKE  THE  BEST  OF  IT 42 

"TAKE  CARE!" '.....  45 

I  LOVE  MY  LOVE  BECAUSE  SHE  is  so  FAIR  ,     .     .  47 
xv 


CONTENTS 

ANGELS,  How  DO  YOU  KEEP  EASTER?      ....  171 

MOONLIGHT 172 

NATURE'S  PRAYER 173 

ALONE 175 

HELP 176 

Two  GATES 177 

THE  SONG  MAKERS  .     .     .     .     .     .     .  v-v.     •  179 

A  LESSON  n*  A  GARDEN      ........  180 

WANDERING  FROM  HOME  TO  HOME 182 

THE  SONG  OF  SUMMERTIME      .     .     .     .     ."    .     .  184 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SUMMER >.     .  185 

THE  SNOW  STORM     ..........  187 

THE  LAD  WITH  THE  BARLEY  LOAVES  .     ....  188 

MUSK  OH  THE  PIER .     .  190 

"  IT  WAS  ONLY  YESTERDAY"     .     .     .     ...     .  192 

"PERHAPS" -."...»..  193 

THE  PRAIRIE  PATH .     -.     .  195 

THE  FLOWER  OF  MIDDLE  AGE  .     .     .     .     .     .     .  197 

YELLOW  JASMINE 199 

HYACINTHS .  200 

JUNE  ROSES .     .     .  202 

WHITE  POPPIES  .     ...    . .  . ..  .     .     .     ,.    .     .  204 

THE  SYMBOL  OF  THE  DANDELIONS      .....  206 

A  SONG  OF  ROSES 208 

SPANISH  Moss ..*...  210 

PLUM  PORTRAITS '.....  212 

AM  APPLE  MEMORY 214 

A  SONG  OF  THE  APPLE   .     .     ...     .     .     .     .  215 

Two  APPLE  TREES .  218 

SWEETEST  PEACHES ,     .     .  220 

Th  \nrKK*9TWcx  AMP  ITnssKS        .......  222 

CHERRIES  A»K  RIPE       .     .     .     .     ,..     .     .  224 

STRAWBERRIES  ARE  RIPE    .........  226 

WHEN  STRAWBERRIES  ARE  RIPE    .     .     .     ...  227 

xvin 


CONTENTS 

FAREWELL,  SWALLOW 229 

MESSENGERS  OF  SPRING      ........  230 

THE  LARK'S  NEST 232 

THE  WINGED  POST 234 

MY  PRETTY  CANARY 235 

DYING  LACORDAIRE  ..........  237 

WASHINGTON 238 

CAPTIVB  QUEENS  IN  THE  MARKET 239 

THE  GREAT  BELL  OF  COLOGNE      ......  242 

BARBARA  ESK 247 

GEORGE  SECOND'S  DREAM  ........  249 

AN  INDIAN  FATHER 251 

THE  MARBLE  IMAGE 253 

CRUCIFIXION 255 

A  HANDFUL  OF  DUST 257 

"Go  UP,  THE  DOOR  is  OPEN!" 259 

THE  SAINT  OF  PADERBORN 261 

MARTIN  LUTHER'S  VICTORY     .......  264 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  WHITE      .......  266 

THE  MARKED  GRAVE 269 

TOM  MOORE 271 

HERE'S  TO  OUR  STARRY  FLAG! 274 

BRITONS,  STRIKE  HANDS'    ........  276 

A  SALUTATION 277 

THE  COLORS  OF  A  REGIMENT 279 

BROTHERS 282 

OPEN  ORDERS 284 

THE  RED  FLAG 286 

FOR  FREEDOM'S  SAKE 288 

HAVE  You  HEARD  THE  CHILDREN  CRYING    .     .     .  290 

A  WAR  CALL  TO  THE  MEN  OF  ISRAEL      ....  291 

AT  THE  LAST 293 

A  WRITER'S  QUESTION 295 


0U. 


AU.a_ 

-.  i. 


THE     OLD     PIANO 


Now,  glad  content  is  mine ;  from  day  to  day 
I  meet  my  life  with  the  severest  look ; 

Love's  foolish  dreams  I  have  sent  far  away, 
I  am  so  happy,  friends,  /  write  a  book! 


THE   OLD   PIANO 

How  still  and  dusky  is  the  long  closed  room ! 
What  lingering  shadows  and  what  sweet  perfume 
Of  Eastern  treasures;  sandal-wood  and  scent, 
With  nard  and  cassia,  and  with  roses'  blent : 

Let  in  the  sunshine. 

Quaint  cabinets  are  here,  boxes  and  fans, 
And  hoarded  letters  full  of  hopes  and  plans: 
The  old  piano,  dear  to  memory; 

In  past  days  mine. 

Of  all  sad  voices  from  forgotten  years, 
It  is  the  saddest.    See  what  tender  tears 
Drop  on  the  yellow  keys !  as  soft  and  slow 
I  play  some  melody  of  long  ago. 

How  strange  it  seems ! 
The  thin,  weak  notes  that  once  were  rich  and 

strong 

Give  only  now,  the  shadow  of  a  song; 
2 


THE     OLD     PIANO 

The  dying  echo  of  the  fuller  strain, 
That  1  shall  never,  never  hear  again: 
Unless  in  dreams. 

What  hands  have  touched  it!  fingers  small  and 

white, 

Since  cold  and  weary  with  life's  toil  and  strife 
Dear  clinging  hands,  that  long  have  been  at  rest 
Folded  serenely  on  a  quiet  breast. 

Only  to  think, 

O  white  sad  notes,  of  all  the  pleasant  days, 
The  happy  songs,  the  hymns  of  holy  praise, 
The  dreams'  of  love  and  youth,  that  round  you 

cling ! 

Do  they  not  make  each  sighing,  trembling  string 
A  mighty  link? 

All  its  musicians  gone  beyond  recall ! 
The  beautiful,  the  loved,  where  are  they  all? 
Each  told  their  secret,  touched  the  keys  and  wires 
To  thoughts  of  many  colors  and  desires, 

With  whispering  fingers: 
All  now  are  silent,  their  last  farewells  said, 
Their  last  songs  sung,  their  last  tears  sadly  shed ; 
Yet  Love  has  given  it  many  dreams  to  keep 
In  this  lone  room,  where  only  shadows  creep, 

And  silence  lingers. 
3 


MY     LITTLE     BROWN     PIPE 

The  old  piano  answers  to  my  call, 

And  from  my  fingers  lets  the  last  notes  fall. 

0  Soul  that  I  have  loved !  With  heavenly  birth 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  memory  of  earth, 

Its  smiles  and  sighs? 
Shall  wood,  and  metal,  and  white  ivory, 
Answer  the  touch  of  love  and  melody, 
And  Thou  forget  ?  Dear  One,  not  so ! 

1  move  thee  yet,  though  how  I  may  not  know, 

Beyond  the  skies. 


MY  LITTLE  BROWN  PIPE 

I  HAVE  a  little  comforter 

I  carry  in  my  pocket; 
It  is  not  any  woman's  face 

Set  in  a  golden  locket ; 
It  is  not  any  kind  of  purse, 

It  is  not  book  or  letter, 
But  yet  at  times  I  really  think 

That  it  is  something  better. 

Oh,  My  pipe,  My  littte  brown  pipe, 

How  oft  at  morning  early, 
When  vexed  with  thoughts  of  coming  toil 

And  just  a  little  surly, 
4 


MY     LITTLE     BROWN     PIPE 

I  sit  with  thee  till  things  get  clear, 
And  all  my  plans  grow  steady, 

And  I  can  face  the  strife  of  life 
With  all  my  senses  ready. 

No  matter  if  my  temper  stands 

At  stormy,  fair,  or  clearing, 
My  pipe  has  not  for  any  mood 

A  word  of  angry  sneering. 
I  always  find  it  just  the  same 

In  care,  or  joy,  or  sorrow, 
And  what  it  is  to-day,  I  know 

It's  sure  to  be  to-morrow. 

It  helps  me  through  the  stress  of  life, 

It  balances  my  losses ; 
It  adds  a  charm  to  household  joys, 

And  lightens  household  crossef. 
For  through  its  wreathing,  misty  veil 

Joy  has  a  softer  splendor, 
And  life  grows  sweetly  possible, 

And  love  more  truly  tender. 

Oh,  I  have  many  richer  joys, 
I  do  not  underrate  them, 

And  every  man  knows  what  I  mean, 
I  do  not  need  to  state  them. 
5 


HELP 


But  this  I  say :    I'd  rather  miss 
A  deal  of  what's  called  pleasure, 

Than  lose  my  little  comforter, 
My  little  smoky  treasure. 


HELP 

MY  hands  have  often  been  weary  hands, 
Too  tired  to  do  their  daily  task ; 

And  just  to  fold  them  forevermore 

Has  seemed  the  boon  that  was  best  to  ask. 

My  feet  have  often  been  weary  feet, 
Too  tired  to  walk  another  day ; 

And  I've  thought,  "To  sit  and  calmly  wait 
Is  better  far  than  the  onward  way." 

My  eyes  with  tears  have  been  so  dim 
That  I  have  said,  "I  can  not  mark 

The  work  I  do  or  the  way  I  take, 
For  everywhere  it  is  dark — so  dark!" 

But,  oh,  thank  God !    There  never  has  come 
That  hour  that  makes  the  bravest  quail: 

No  matter  how  weary  my  feet  and  hands, 
God  never  has  suffered  my  heart  to  fail. 
6 


COME     HOME,     CHILDREN 

So  the  folded  hands  take  up  their  work, 
And  the  weary  feet  pursue  their  way; 

And  all  is  clear  when  the  good  heart  cries, 
"Be  brave! — to-morrow's  another  day." 


COME  HOME,  CHILDREN 

"I  WONDER  why  I  should  think  to-night 

Of    Galveston    beach,    with    its    bare    white 

sands?" 
And  the  old  man  feebly  stirred  the  logs, 

And  warmed  in  the  blaze  his  thin,  cold  hands. 
"I  used  to  play  on  the  white  beach  sands 

And  paddle  with  bare  brown  feet  in  the  foam. 
I  used  to  live  near  the  Mexican  Gulf, 
And  never  a  boy  had  a  fairer  home. 

"We  were  six  children,  merry  and  bold, 

Sailors  and  fishers,  bound  to  be. 
We  built  our  boats  and  we  cast  our  nets 

All  day  long,  by  the  sounding  sea. 
All  day  long,  'til  the  sea  grew  dim 

And   the   waves   were   white,   with   breaking 
foam. 

7 


COME     HOME,     CHILDREN 

Oh,  would  I  could  hear  my  Mother  call : 

'Willy,     don't     linger.     Come     home;     come 
come !' 

"For  I  was  always  the  last  to  hear, 

Always  the  last  her  smile  to  meet, 
So  when  the  rest  on  the  hearth-stone  stood 

Still  she  was  watching  my  tardy  feet. 
Does  she  watch  them  yet  from  the  hills  of  God? 

Does  she  see  how  sadly  now  they  roam? 
In  a  little  while,  I  shall  hear  the  call, 

'Willy,  don't  linger ;  come  home ;  come  home !' 

"For  I  am  weary  and  sad  and  old, 

My  feet  are  touching  the  great  dim  sea. 
The  others  are  safe  with  her,  long  ago ; 

But  she  is  waiting  and  watching  for  me." 
He  talked  all  night  of  the  bare  white  sands,- 

Of  his  Mother's  voice  and  the  breaking  foam ; 
But  just  as  the  dawning  touched  the  east 

We  knew  he  had  found  his  Mother,  and  home. 

Mothers  who  know  that  your  toil  is  great, 
Mothers  who  fear  that  your  love  is  vain, 

Sons  may  wander  and  seem  to  forget ; 
Some  day  they  will  remember  again. 
8 


FADED     BLUEBELLS 

They  may  grow  famous  or  rich  or  old, 
Far  away  from  your  side  they  may  roam; 

The  gray-headed  man  is  only  a  boy 

When  he  whispers  "Mother"  and  thinks  of 
home! 


FADED  BLUEBELLS 

OH,  how  easily  opens  the  book 

On  these  faded  flowers  so  thin  and  brown ! 
Wae's  me,  for  the  bonny  little  hand 

That  clasped  my  hand,  as  out  of  the  town 
And  into  the  fields  we  went  that  day, 

That  last  sweet  day  in  the  flowery  May. 

Happy  were  we  in  the  unmown  grass, 
Pulling  the  bluebells  here  and  there; 

Never  before  had  he  seemed  so  gay — 
Ah,  never  before,  so  sweet  and  fair, 

And  the  hours  flew  by,  till  like  a  spell 
A  sudden  shadow  of  sorrow  fell. 

One  minute  all  seemed  so  bright  and  glad, 
The  next  I  knew  it  was  cold  and  chill ; 

The  child  had  felt  it  as  well  as  I 

And  grown  as  suddenly  sad  and  still. 
9 


FADED     BLUEBELLS 

"What  is  it?"  I  said,  in  strange  alarm, 

And  lifted  the  boy  in  my  strong  right  arm. 

In  my  strong  right  arm,  close  to  my  heart, 
I  carried  him  home — O  sad,  sad  way, 

The  pale  mists  rising  above  the  fields, 
The  sun  going  down  in  somber  gray. 

"Take  care  of  my  flowers,"  he  faintly  said, 
And  then  on  my  shoulder  laid  his  head. 

Twenty  years  has  he  been  in  Heaven, 
But  he's  my  boy  yet,  he's  my  boy  yet. 

I  have  kept  his  tasseled  cap  and  shoes 

And  the  pretty  stockings  his  mother  knit. 

His  little  checked  frock,  his  chair,  his  ball, 
His  broken  toys — I  have  kept  them  all. 

But  oh,  these  bluebells  are  dearer  far, 
Withered  and  frail  and  sad  they  look ; 

But  for  twenty  years  they  have  lain  beside 
The  sweetest  promise  in  all  the  Book. 

See,  when  I  go  to  my  last  long  rest, 
That  you  lay  these  bluebells  on  my  breast. 


THE  ALBUM 

MY  photograph  album?    Certainly, 
You  can  look,  if  you  wish,  my  dear; 

To  me  it  is  just  like  a  grave-yard, 
Though  I  go  through  it  once  a  year. 

Any  new  faces?     No,  indeed.     No, 

I  stopped  collecting  some  years  ago. 

And  yet,  Jeannette,  look  well  at  the  book: 

It  is  full  of  histories  strange ; 
The  faces  are  just  an  index,  dear, 

To  stories  of  pitiful  change — 
Drama  and  poem  and  tragedy, 
Which  I  alone  have  the  power  to  see. 

Ah !  I  thought  you  would  pause  at  that  face ; 

She  was  fair  as  a  poet's  lay, 
The  sweetest  rose  of  her  English  home, 

Yet  she  perished  far,  far  away: 
In  the  black  massacre  at  Cawnpore 
She  suffered  and  died — we  know  no  more, 
ii 


THE     ALBUM 

And  that  ?     Ah,  yes,  'tis  a  noble  head ! 

Soul  sits  on  the  clear,  lofty  brow  ; 
She  was  my  friend  in  the  days  gone  by, 

And  she  is  my  enemy  now. 
Mistake,  and  wrong,  and  sorrow — alas! 
One  of  life's  tragedies — let  it  pass. 

This  face  ?    He  was  my  lover,  Jeanette ; 

And  perchance  he  remembers  to-day 
The  passionate  wrong  that  wrecked  us  both 

When  he  sailed  in  his  anger  away. 
Heart-sick  and  hopeless  through  weary  years, 
At  length  I  forgot  him — despite  these  tears. 

That  handsome  fellow  ?     He  loved  me  too ; 

And  he  vowed  he  would  die,  my  dear, 
When  I  told  him  "No"— 'tis  long  ago : 

He  married  the  very  next  year. 
That  one  I  liked  a  little,  but  he 
Cared  much  for  my  gold,  nothing  for  me. 

Brides  and  bridegrooms  together,  dear, 
And  most  of  them  parted  to-day; 

Some  famous  men  that  are  quite  forgot, 
Some  beauties  faded  and  gray. 

Close  the  book,  for  'tis  just  as  I  said — 

Full  of  pale  ghosts  from  a  life  that's  dead. 

12 


PATCHWORK 

MY  lady's  hair  is  white  as  milk, 
And  dainty  lace  is  o'er  it  spread, 
Lace  fine  as  any  spider's  web; 

Her  dress  is  of  the  richest  silk, 

Her  eyes  are  tender,  bright,  and  blue, 
And  she  sits  sewing  all  day  through : 

Sits  sewing  with  a  patience  rare 
A  cushion  tinted  manifold: 
Of  richest  satins,  cloth  of  gold, 

And  softest  velvets  wondrous  fair: 
Of  glancing  silks  and  rich  brocade, 
In  cunning  skill  and  beauty  laid. 

Thus  sewing  all  the  long  days  through, 
She  said,  "I  make  my  story,  dears — 
A  story  full  of  smiles  and  tears. 

Amber  and  crimson,  white  and  blue, 
Bright  greens  and  pinks  and  purple  pale, 
Are  but  the  chapters  of  my  tale. 
13 


PATCHWORK 

"This  dainty  square  of  rosy  hue 
Is  from  the  dress  I  wore  that  day 
Your  father  stole  my  heart  away; 

This  white,  with  silver  threaded  through, 
My  wedding  suit.     What  days  divide 
The  widow  from  the  happy  bride ! 

"This  sable  velvet,  this,  this,  that, 
Are  portions  of  some  splendid  vest 
(Your  father  still  was  nobly  dress'd)  ; 

This  circle  was  a  rich  cravat; 
I  had  a  dress  the  same  that  year 
He  went  to  Washington,  my  dear ! 

"My  Harry's  tie  of  sailor  blue 
And  Charley's  crimson  sash  are  here, 
And  your  first  ball  dress,  Mabel  dear : 

Sweet  baby  Grace  you  never  knew, 
She  died  so  soon — this  tiny  square, 
Is  from  the  bow  that  bound  her  hair. 

"So,  darlings,  let  me  dream  and  sew : 
These  strips  of  pink  and  gray  and  gold 
The  story  of  my  life  unfold : 

And  as  the  still  days  come  and  go, 
The  happy  Past  comes  back  to  me, 
In  all  Love's  tender  fantasy." 
14 


IN  THE  GARDEN 

STILL  is  the  garden — still  and  sweet ; 
The  flowers  are  dreaming  at  my  feet: 

Heart,  who  calleth  me? 
Some  voice  that  sighs  for  very  bliss, 
Some  joy  I  fain  would  run  to  kiss: 

Heart,  who  calleth  me? 

There  is  no  sound  of  bird  or  bees, 
No  low  wind  stirring  in  the  trees: 

Heart,  who  calleth  me? 
The  changing  river,  as  it  flows, 
Scarce  breaks  the  deeply  lulled  repose : 

Heart,  who  calleth  me? 

What  wandering  spirit  sweetly  sways 
And  rules  my  dreams,  but  never  says, 

Heart,  who  calleth  me? 
I  blush,  I  tremble  to  its  spell, 
I  know  it  not ;  wilt  thou  not  tell, 

Heart,  who  calleth  me? 

15 


LAST     FLOWERS 

Then,  voice,  reveal  thyself,  I  pray ; 
Give  fancy  form,  and  fondly  say, 

"Sweet,  Love  calleth  thee." 
O  rose !  O  sea !  O  sky  above ! 
Echo  these  long-sought  tones  of  Love : 

"Sweet,  Love  calleth  thee!" 


LAST  FLOWERS 

O  AUTUMN,  with  thy  face  set  winter-wise, 
Linger,  I  pray  thee,  in  these  ruined  bowers, 

And  cast  the  parting  splendor  of  thy  eyes 
Upon  the  steadfast  beauty  of  thy  flowers! 

Gone  are  the  gayer  buds  that  Summer  knew; 

But,  Autumn,  thine  are  loyal,  brave,  and  true. 

See  how  the  ardent  Marigolds  still  lift 
Their  tawny  faces,  glowing  with  a  smile! 

Wilt  thou  not  take  a  handful  for  a  gift? 
In  them  is  neither  flattery  nor  guile. 

They  are  for  thee :  though  sun  and  song  be  past, 

Surely  their  constancy  may  win  at  last. 

These  starry  Asters,  beautiful  and  bold, 

Sweet  "after-thoughts  of  Summer,"  fair  and 
bright; 

16 


LAST     FLOWERS 

Scented  Chrysanthemums,  with  flowers  of  gold, 

Or  royal  crimson,  violet,  and  white — 
Are  they  not  thine  ? — for  thee  alone  to  bloom, 
Until  the  snow  shall  shroud  them  for  their  tomb  ? 

Purple  Gerardia  o'er  the  grassy  sods, 
Splendid  Lobelia  in  their  scarlet  hoods, 

On  the  way-side  the  stately  Golden-rods, 
The  bronzing  Lady-fern  within  the  woods — • 

All  wait  on  thee:  constant  and  true  they  stan<J, 

The  last,  the  last  of  Summer's  flowery  band. 

A  moment  stay,  and  clasp  them  to  thy  heart — 
Their  beauty  and  their  love  may  claim  this 

grace — 

Kiss  them  farewell,  ere,  sighing,  thou  depart, 
For  they  will  perish  when  they  lose  thy  face. 
They    have   been    faithful   through   thy    fading 

hours, 

And  Autumn's  death  will  kill  the  Autumn  flow 
ers. 


THE  EMPTY  PURSE 

You  little  needy  thing  of  silk  and  leather, 
We've  had  some  very  pleasant  hours  together 
When  you  were  full;  now,  empty,  if  you  please, 
Answer  a  few  slight  questions,  such  as  these — 

Want's  bad  enough,  you  know,  but  debt  is  worse ; 
Now,  can  a  creditor  be  paid  in  verse? 
Say,  are  hexameters,  as  I've  been  told, 
In  certain  markets  just  as  good  as  gold? 

Is  it  a  lawful  tender,  if  the  brain 
Coin  its  iambics  in  some  pleasant  strain? 
Are  meters  current?     Will  a  stanza  pay 
For  gloves  and  trifles  needed  every  day? 

May  rhyme  be  offered  for  a  debt  or  fee, 
Are  the  nine  Muses  good  security? 
If  I  could  mortgage  Mt.  Parnassus,  would 
I  find  a  soul  to  rate  the  paper  good? 

I  heard  a  little  rippling  laugh  and  then 
A  pleasant  voice,  which  said,  "So  long  as  men 
Love  all  things  good  and  fair — while  roses  blow, 
While  larks  and  thrushes  sing,  while  rivers  flow, 
18 


AN     OLD     MAN     S     VALENTINE 

While  maidens   smile,   and   youths,   enraptured, 

love, 

While  earth  is  green  below,  heaven  blue  above, 
While  home  is  sweet,  while  children  laugh  and 

play, 
While  love  of  country  o'er  the  heart  holds  sway, 

Sing  on!  sing  on!     The  world  has  not  grown 

cold; 

If  thy  notes  please  it,  they  are  good  as  gold ; 
Sing  from  the  heart,  and  never  doubt  but  we 
Shall  find  the  Muses  good  security." 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  VALENTINE 

"GivE  me  a  valentine,  youth," 

And  the  old  man's  cheeks  were  aglow 

Tho'  a  staff  was  in  his  hand 

And  his  hair  was  as  white  as  snow. 

"Give  me  a  valentine,  something  nice ; 
The  girl  I  love  is  beyond  price. 

"One  of  the  old-fashioned  kind, 

All  sweet  with  the  perfume  of  flowers, 

With  dear  little  simple  rhymes 
And  two  lovers  in  rosy  bowers, 
19 


AN     OLD     MAN     S    VALENTINE 

With  a  timid  hope  and  a  thought  of  tears 
That  has  been  my  style  for  fifty  years. 

"This  one  will  suit  her,  I  think, 

Her  eyes  as  these  blossoms  are  blue, 

White  as  these  lilies  her  hair, 

Like  this  dove,  she  is  tender  and  true. 

Just  such  a  valentine — smiles  and  fears — 
As  I've  sent  to  her  now  for  fifty  years. 

"No  need  for  laughing,  young  men ! 

But  laugh,  when  you're  seventy  years  old, 
If  the  girl  you  love  to-day 

Is  beloved  of  you,  seventy  fold. 
Laugh,  if  you've  had  through  fifty  years' 
strife 

The  wonderful  joy  of  a  faithful  wife. 

"Send  her  a  valentine  then, 

As  I'm  sending  my  wife  to-day. 

Send  her  one  every  year, 

For  that  is  a  true  lover's  way. 

God  give  you,  young  men,  a  wife  like  mine, 
And  you'll  send  her,  I  know,  a  valentine." 


AN  OLD  WIFE'S  VALENTINE 

THE  old  wife  stood  at  her  garden  gate 

The  Eve  of  St.  Valentine's  day, 
She  watched  for  the  post,  that  like  a  Fate 

Just  stopped,  and  then  galloped  away. 
Just  stopped,  and  then  in  the  waning  light 

Passed  over  the  hill  and  out  of  sight. 

Her  grandchild  tugged  at  her  shawl  and  gown 
And  her  daughter  called  sweet  and  clear, 

"Mother,  come  in,  for  the  cakes  are  brown 
And  the  boys  and  Father  are  here." 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  said,  "and  the  night  is  cold; 
I  quite  forget  I  am  growing  old." 

At  breakfast,  lay  at  the  Father's  place 

A  letter  as  white  as  snow. 
He  looked  at  it  with  curious  face 

And  said,  "Now  I  want  to  know!" 
The  boys  all  smiled;  the  Mother  grew 

O'er  face  and  throat  a  crimson  hue. 

21 


AN     OLD     WIFE     S     VALENTINE 

He  opened  the  dainty  letter  then, 

And  lo !  in  its  satiny  fold 
Was  painted  rose  and  forget-me-not 

And  lilies  with  hearts  of  gold; 
And  under  the  whole,  just  one  sweet  line, 

"Forever,  forever,  thy  valentine." 

He  touched  the  note  with  a  tender  care 
And  he  went  to  his  sweet  wife's  side, 

He  stroked  with  his  hand  her  snow-white  hair 
And  he  kissed  her  with  loving  pride, 

Saying  with  smile  and  misty  tears, 
"My  valentine  through  fifty  years." 

"Oh,  boys,"  he  said,  with  youthful  pride, 

"After  fifty  years  of  life, 
If  you  find  in  your  home  and  by  your  side 

A  fair  and  faithful  wife, 
Count  your  life  lucky,  as  I  count  mine, 

And  loyally  kiss  your  valentine." 


AT  FIFTY  YEARS 

IT  seems  but  yesterday  since  we  set  sail 
From  our  first  port,  our  happy  childhood's 
strand. 

Since  then,  we've  weathered  many  a  stormy  gale 
And  touched  a  while  at  many  a  pleasant  land. 

We  are  tried  sailors  now,  and  we  can  feel 
How  steadily  our  hands  can  guide  the  wheel. 

But  we  go  back  no  more — no,  never  more ! 

Over  the  waste  of  waters  all  in  vain 
We  turn  to  gaze  on  childhood's  happy  shore 

Upon  Life's  sea,  no  ship  turns  back  again. 
Ah,  well,  there  have  been  tempests  in  the  past 

And  we  are  in  the  calm  deep  seas  at  last. 

Now  set  all  sails,  the  wind  is  soft  and  fair ; 

The  sky  is  cloudless,  as  in  days  of  June, 
After  the  morning's  stormy  fight  and  care 

How  pleasant  is  the  still,  warm  afternoon; 
Now  we  may  calmly  work  and  calmly  rest 

And  watch  the  sun  sink  grandly  to  the  west. 
23 


THE     OLD     REAPER 

Full  many  a  year  we've  been  tossed  to  and  fro, 

But  now  the  tempests  and  the  care  are  o'er, 
And  bright,  though  far  away,  the  home  lights 

glow; 
Why  should  we  weep  though  we  return  no 

more? 

The  port  from  which  we  sailed  lay  cold  and  low, 
The  haven  that  we  seek  no  storms  can  know. 


THE  OLD  REAPER 

'Mio  the  brown-haired  and  the  black-haired 
men, 

With  ruddy  faces  aglow, 
The  old  man  stood  in  the  harvest  field 

With  head  as  white  as  snow. 
"Let  me  cut  a  sheaf,  my  boys,"  he  said, 

"Before  it  is  time  to  go." 

They  put  the  sickle  within  his  hand, 
He  bowed  to  the  windy  wheat; 

Pleasantly  fell  the  golden  ears 

With  the  corn  flowers,  at  his  feet; 

He  lifted  a  handful  thoughtfully, 
It  was  ripe  and  full  and  sweet. 
24 


THE     OLD     REAPER 

"Many  and  many  a  sheaf,"  he  said, 
"I  have  cut  in  the  years  gone  past, 

And  many  and  many  a  sheaf  these  arms 
On  the  harvest  wains  have  cast ; 

But,  children  dear,  I  am  weary  now, 
And  I  think  this  is — the  last. 

"Let  me  rest  a  while  beneath  the  tree, 

For  I  like  to  watch  you  go, 
With  sickles  bright,  through  the  ripe  full 

wheat 

And  to  feel  the  fresh  wind  blow." 
And   they  spread  their  working  coats   for 

him 
'Mong  the  grasses,  sweet  and  low. 

When  the  sun  grew  high,  they  came  again 
For  drink,  and  their  bread  and  meat; 

And  in  the  shadow  he  sleeping  lay 
With  the  sunshine  on  his  feet, 

Like  a  child  at  night  outspent  with  play, 
He  lay  in  slumber  sweet. 

When  they  came  again  he  faintly  said, 

"I  have  crossed  the  meadow  stile, 

25 


HER     MAJESTY     CHRISTINE 

My  work  is  done ;  'tis  nearly  dark, 

I  shall  rest  in  a  little  while." 
That  night  it  was  Harvest  Home  with  him, 

But  he  went  away  with  a  smile. 


HER  MAJESTY  CHRISTINE 

I  AM  seventy,  gray  and  staid, 

I  love  well  a  little  maid 

And  she  rules  me  like  a  queen. 

She  has  such  a  royal  way, 

Whatsoever  she  may  say, 

I  am  eager  to  obey 

Her  small  Majesty,  Christine. 

She  has  robes  of  wondrous  white, 
She  has  sashes  gay  and  bright, 
Lace  and  ribbons  for  a  queen ; 
Golden  crown  is  not  so  fair 
As  her  crown  of  golden  hair. 
Ah,  what  maiden  can  compare 
With  her  Majesty,  Christine! 

I  have  seventy  summers  told, 
She's  exactly  five  years  old, 
Promptly  still  obeys  mamma; 
26 


THE     LITTLE     TRAVELER 

But  no  one  has  ever  seen 
Such  a  slave  to  any  queen 
As  I  am  to  sweet  Christine 
When  she  calls  me  Grandpapa. 


THE  LITTLE  TRAVELER 

STRAIGHT  down  the  city's  crowded  street 

A  little  Traveler  went; 
The  eager  throng,  with  hurrying  feet, 

On  gain  or  pleasure  bent, 
Made  free  for  him  a  narrow  way, 

But  none  among  them  bid  him  stay. 

Only  a  child,  yet  for  his  sake 

Wealth,  thoughtful,  stepped  aside, 

Power  waived  a  while  its  right  of  place, 
And  Rank  forgot  its  pride, 

While  many  a  head  a  moment  bent 
As  on  the  little  Traveler  went. 

A  Stranger  from  some  far-off  land 

Spoke  then  in  doubtful  tone : 
"  Tis  said  your  race  bow  not  to  kings, 

But  unto  Worth  alone. 
27 


THE     LITTLE     TRAVELER 

Who,  then,  is  this,  to  whom  all  pay 
Such  homage  in  the  crowded  way?" 

"A  Traveler,  more  noble  far 

Than  kings  of  noblest  age ; 
Purer  than  any  praying  priest, 

Wiser  than  any  sage. 
He  rests  in  yonder  holy  place : 

Come,  then,  and  look  upon  his  face." 

The  tender  lights  fell  soft  and  dim; 

The  air  was  thrilled  with  psalms; 
He  lay  in  coffin  white  and  small, 

With  lilies  in  his  palms — 
Serenely  peaceful,  as  those  sleep 

Who  have  no  longer  watch  to  keep. 

Oh,  happy  Traveler,  to  reach 
While  yet  unstained  by  tears 

The  Home  that  we  shall  hardly  find 
Through  weeping,  weary  years, 

Whose  small  unsandaled  feet  may  stray 
On  heights  for  which  we  vainly  pray. 


A  TAP  AT  THE  DOOR 

A  HAND  tapped  at  my  door  low  down,  low  down ; 
I  opened  it,  and  saw  two  eyes  of  brown, 

Two  lips  of  cherry  red, 

A  little  curly  head, 

A  bonny,  fairy  sprite  in  dress  of  white, 
Who  said,  with  lifted  face,  "Papa,  good  night!" 

She  climbed  upon  my  knee,  and  kneeling  there, 

Lisped  softly,  solemnly,  her  little  prayer ; 
Her  meeting  finger  tips, 
Her  pure,  sweet  baby  lips, 

Carried  my  soul  with  hers,  half-unaware, 

Into  some  clearer  and  diviner  air. 

I  tried  to  lift  again,  but  all  in  vain, 
Of  scientific  thought  the  subtle  chain, 
So  small,  so  small, 
My  learning  all; 

Though  I  could  call  each  star  and  tell  its  place, 
My  child's  "Our  Father"  bridged  the  gulf  of 
space. 

29 


A     TAP     AT     THE     DOOR 

I  sat  with  folded  hands  at  rest,  at  rest, 
Turning  this  solemn  thought  within  my  breast ; 

How  faith  would  fade 

If  God  had  made 

No  children  in  this  world — no  baby  age — 
Only  the  prudent  man  or  thoughtful  sage. 

Only  the  woman  wise,  no  little  arms 

To  clasp  around  our  neck ;  no  baby  charms, 

No  loving  care, 

No  sinless  prayer, 

No  thrill  of  lisping  song,  no  pattering  feet, 
No  infant  heart  against  our  heart  to  beat. 

Then  if  a  tiny  heart,  low  down, 

Tap  at  thy  heart  or  door ;  ah !  do  not  frown ; 

Bend  low  to  meet 

The  little  feet, 

To  clasp  the  clinging  hand ;  the  child  will  be 
Nearer  to  heaven  than  thee — nearer  than  thee. 


TO-DAY  AND  TO-MORROW 

IF  there  come  some  joy  to  me, 

Would  you  have  me  stay, 
With  that  joy  to  sweeten  life? 

"Yes,  Heart,  stay  to-day." 
Well,  then,  if  I  have  a  dream 

Of  some  coming  sorrow, 
Shall  I  wait  to  feel  its  fear? 

"That  will  do  to-morrow." 

If  unto  some  loving  heart 

I've  a  debt  to  pay? 
"Ah !  that  is  a  mighty  debt. 

Pay  it,  Heart,  to-day." 
If  I'm  forced  from  bitter  wrongs 

Cruel  words  to  borrow? 
"Then,  dear  Heart,  there  is  no  haste ; 

Keep  them  till  to-morrow. 

"Duty,  kindness,  and  Success 

Lose  by  slow  delay : 
Duty  hath  a  double  right 

When  it  claims  to-day; 
31 


ONLY     A     LOCK     OF     HAIR 

Kindness  dies  if  it  must  wait ; 

Success  will  not  stay — 
Unto  them  comes  no  to-morrow, 

If  they  lose  to-day. 

"But  for  Debt  and  Doubt  and  Anger, 

But  for  useless  Sorrow, 
Better  you  should  wait  a  day: 

Keep  them  for  to-morrow. 
And  as  every  day's  to-day, 

You  may  patience  borrow, 
Thus  forever  to  put  off 

Such  a  bad  to-morrow." 


ONLY  A  LOCK  OF  HAIR 

ONLY  a  lock  of  dark  brown  hair, 
Threaded  with  silver  here  and  there — 

(Why  do  I  weep?) 
Low  lies  the  head  in  the  quiet  grave, 
Cold  is  the  heart  so  true  and  brave — 

(Why  do  I  weep?) 

Never  again  shall  that  dear  head  ache, 
Never  again  shall  that  true  heart  break, 
Never  again  shall  those  sad  eyes  wake 

From  that  calm  sleep. 
32 


ONLY    A     LOCK     OF     HAIR 

Four  long  years  in  the  grave  at  rest, 
Tired  hands  folded  across  the  breast — 

(Why  do  I  weep?) 

Feet  that  had  ranged  the  wide  world  o'er, 
Eyes  that  had  ached  for  the  better  shore— 

(Why  do  I  weep?) 
O  pale,  cold  lips  that  I  fain  would  kiss, 

0  heart  and  brain  that  I  hourly  miss, 

1  charge  thee  still  in  the  homes  of  bliss 

My  image  keep. 

See  where  it  lies  in  my  open  palm, 
Thrilling  my  soul  like  a  silent  psalm — 

(Why  do  I  weep?) 

Tangled  with  kisses  and  wet  with  tears, 
Nursed  on  my  breast  for  four  long  years — 

(Why  do  I  weep?) 
All  will  be  past  in  a  few  short  years, 
Hushed  the  tumult  and  dried  the  tears, 
Life  with  its  sorrows  and  hopes  and  fears 

Will  calmly  sleep. 


'TANSIES  FOR  THOUGHTS" 

0  ROYAL  Pansy !     "Freaked  o'er  with  jet," 
Born  in  the  purple,  with  a  fringe  of  gold ; 

Lift  thy  clear  eye;  for  mine  with  tears  are  wet 
And  thou  hast  gifts  of  heart's  ease  as  of  old. 

What  hidden  spell  is  painted  on  thy  leaves  ? 
What  sign  to  Memory  that  her  sad  eyes  know  ? 

1  give  thee  to  her  where  she  sits  and  grieves 

And  her  sweet,  pensive  face  doth  light  and 
glow. 

She  stoops  and  kisses  thee;  then  calmly  says, 
"O  I  remember  where  we  first  did  meet 

One  Sabbath  morning  in  the  young  spring  days 
When  service  bells  were  ringing  in  the  street." 

"Sweet  was  the  sermon  that  I  heard  thee  preach, 
Fresh   thy   faint  perfume  mingling  with  my 

prayer, 

And  happy  were  it  for  me  could  I  reach 
The  aspirations  thou  didst  kindle  there. 
34 


PANSIES   FOR  THOUGHTS" 

"Since  then,  from  hands  whose  little  work  was 
o'er 

(Sweet  baby  fingers  on  a  quiet  breast), 
Thou  oft  has  prayed  me,  'Weep  not  any  more, 

Be  thou  at  heart's  ease,  for  they  are  at  rest.' " 

Do  Angels  come  as  flowers  ?  Why,  then,  I  know 
That  some  have  spoke  with  me  this  Sabbath 
day, 

And,  wet  with  grateful  tears,  my  pansies  grow 
And  make  my  window  with  their  beauty  gay. 

So,  I  have  heart's  ease,  when  so  e'er  I  will, 
To  charm  my  memory  with  their  holy  spell ; 

And  she,  serene  and  patient,  answers  still 
To  every  anxious  question,  "All  is  well." 


A  DEPARTURE 

PATIENT,  with  weight  of  years  upon  his  head, 
The  old  man  sat,  within  the  chimney  nook. 

His  ears  were  dull ;  he  heard  no  word  was  said, 
His  eyes  were  dim ;  he  read  no  face  or  book. 

Serene  and  still,  without  a  doubt  or  fear 
Between  worlds ;  not  wholly  there,  nor  here. 

One  night,  the  gray  face  brightened  with  strange 

light. 
"Who  called  me?"  with  quick  eagerness  he 

said, 
And  held  his  head  erect  and  sat  upright; 

"Who   called   me?"    Then   he   softly   sighed 

and  smiled. 

"It  was  my  Mother's  voice.    She  called  me  so 
When  evening  shadows  fell — long,  long  ago." 

He   mused   some   hours.     Then   suddenly   once 

more 

Broke  into  smiles  and  said,  "Be  still !    Be  still ! 
36 


QUIET     HOURS 

I  hear  the  squirrels  on  the  forest  floor, 
I  hear  the  hunter's  voice  upon  the  hill ; 

It  must  be  morning  now,  on  land  and  sea, 
I  hear  my  Brother !     He  is  calling  me !" 

The  summons  came  again  at  middle  night; 

We  saw  the  glory  through  Death's  mystic  gray. 
"Coming !"  he  cried,  his  face  with  wonder  bright. 

"A  good-night,  dears !"  and  so  he  went  away. 
Yet,  while  we  listened,  worshiping  and  dumb, 

I  heard  him,  passing,  to  some  Presence  say, 

"Haste  thee  before  and  tell  my  Dead  I  come." 


QUIET  HOURS 

THE  morning  will  soon  be  here, 

For  over  the  purple  hill 
The  daylight  is  chasing  the  night  away 

With  a  foot  that  is  noiseless  and  still. 
O,  the  night  was  so  long,  so  long, 

As  I  sat  by  the  window  alone, 
Watching  the  moon  as  it  slowly  rose 

Til  above  the  trees  it  shone. 
It  looked  as  it  hung  in  the  sky 

Like  a  goblet  filled  to  the  brim 
37 


QUIET     HOURS 

With  wine  of  an  amber,  golden  hue ; 

But  now  it  is  white  and  dim, 
As  if  it  had  all  been  quaffed 

Arid  only  the  glass  remained, 
With  the  faintest,  palest,  shimmering  tinge 

To  show  what  it  then  contained. 
And  once,  when  it  fullest  seemed 

With  the  sparkling,  glittering  wine, 
A  single  star,  like  a  fleck  of  foam 

Of  the  precious  juice  of  the  vine 
Went  drifting,  drifting  off 

As  we  sometimes  lose  a  day 
That,  when  the  goblet  of  life  is  full, 

Silently  floats  away. 
But  now  the  daylight  is  here, 

And  the  sad,  vague  thoughts  of  night 
Have  died  away,  as  the  sunbeams  fall 

Like  arrows  of  golden  light. 
Ah !  'tis  quiet  hours  like  these, 

When  we  wistfully  look  above 
And  see  the  works  of  the  great  good  God 

And  think  of  His  tender  love 
That  helps  us  to  braver  be 

And  strengthen  us  on  our  way, 
Til  the  beaiitiful  night  of  Life,  at  last, 

Is  merged  in  Eternity's  day. 
38 


NOT  LONG  AGO 

IT  is  not  long  since  we  with  happy  feet 

Stood  ankle-deep  in  grasses,  fresh  and  green ; 

While  in  the  apple  blossoms,  pink  and  sweej, 
The  singing  birds,  with  flashing  wings,  were 
seen. 

It  is  not  long  ago — not  long  ago — 

Since  the  glad  winds  ran  through  the  tasseled 

corn: 
This  way  and  that  way,  swaying  to  and  fro, 

The  golden  wheat  waited  the  harvest  morn. 

Now,  all  the  silent  fields  are  brown  and  bare, 
And  all  the  singing  birds  are  gone  away; 

But  peaceful  calm  is  in  the  hazy  air, 

And  we,  content,  can  watch  the  sweet  decay. 

For  so  the  hay  is  saved,  the  corn,  the  wheat, 

The  honey  from  a  thousand  scented  bowers, 
While  russet  apples,  delicately  sweet, 

Hang  where  once  hung  the  pink-white  apple 
flowers. 

39 


AN     OLD     STREET 

So  we  in  our  life's  autumn  stilly  muse 
Upon  the  harvest  of  our  gathered  years, 

Finding  the  hopes  that  once  we  feared  to  lose 
Grown  perfect  through  our  toil  and  love  and 
tears, 

And  saying,  gratefully,  "Although  their  flower 
Was  strangely  fair  and  sweet,  from  cup  to 

r 

root, 
'Twas  best  they  changed  with  us  from  hour  to 

hour, 
For  better  than  the  Blossom  is — the  Fruit." 


AN  OLD  STREET 

I'VE  wandered  through  the  old  street  once  again, 
Where  long  ago  we  wandered,  you  and  I ; 
I  tread  it,  Love,  with  pleasure  and  with  pain, 
With  fond  regret,  that  is  alas,  in  vain, 
With  many  a  sigh. 

With  lingering  step,  how  oft  at  early  day 
I  searched  with  eager  heart  this  busy  street ; 
For  well  I  knew,  you  went  to  school  this  way, 
Do  you  remember  what  we  found  to  say 
In  hours  so  sweet? 
40 


AN     OLD     STREET 

I  took  your  books,  and  took  your  hand  in  mine, 
Like  fairy-land  the  common  street  became; 
Through  the  past  years  I  see  your  blue  eyes 

shine, 

I  feel  your  fingers  with  my  fingers  twine, 
I  speak  your  name. 

My  heart  stands  still  amid  the  busy  press, 
I  half  expect  to  see  your  happy  face ; 
There  comes  a  memory  of  some  straying  tress, 
I  think  I  hear  the  fluttering  of  your  dress, 
In  the  old  place. 

The  old  place  now  so  changed ;  if  you  could  see 
The  cot  where  we  bought  roses  long  ago, 
'Tis  now  a  splendid  pile  of  masonry, 
With  windows  row  on  row ;  but  there  for  me 
No  roses  blow. 

Until  the  night  falls :  then  when  all  is  still 
I  pace  the  silent  street,  and  through  the  gloom 
The  old  familiar  faces  come  at  will; 
The  old  familiar  places  are  there  still 
And  roses  bloom. 

The  girl  I  loved,  the  friend  with  whom  I  read, 
A  thousand  memories  crowd  the  narrow  place, 
41 


MAKE     THE     BEST     OF     IT 

Far  wandered  feet  come  back,  and  by  me  tread, 
I  have  them  all — the  Loved,  the  Lost,  the  Dead, 
A  little  space. 

And  so  your  name  has  been  a  spell,  whose  sway 
Brought  the  old  faces  back  to  the  old  spot ; 
If  stone  and  mortar  can  be  dear,  Oh,  say, 
Are  our  old  Loves,  though  gone  far,  far,  away, 
Ever  forgot? 


MAKE  THE  BEST   OF  IT 

i 

IF  some  pleasure  come  your  way, 
Though  'tis  but  a  holiday, 
Just  an  hour  or  two  of  play, 

Better  make  the  best  of  it. 
Drop  your  work,  its  care  and  strife, 
Take  your  child,  and  take  your  wife, 
Taste  a  moment's  freer  life, 

And  just  make  the  best  of  it. 

ii 

Oft  ungrateful  you  have  been; 
Though  your  home  was  sweet  and  clean, 

42 


MAKE     THE     BEST     OF     IT 

Thought  it  only  small  and  mean, 

Better  make  the  best  of  it. 
Think  upon  your  table  spread, 
With  enough  of  daily  bread, 
Bless  your  baby's  curly  head, 

And  just  make  the  best  of  it. 

in 

Perhaps  you've  gone  with  weary  feet 
Through  the  hay,  and  corn,  and  wheat; 
When  the  harvest  is  complete 

Make  the  very  best  of  it. 
Though  you've  grumbled  oft  before 
At  the  smallness  of  your  store, 
Do  not  grumble  any  more, 

But  just  make  the  best  of  it. 

rv 

Two  things  since  the  world  began 
No  one  frets  for,  if  a  man — 
What  he  can't  help — what  he  can — 

But  he  makes  the  best  of  it. 
What  you  can't  help,  is  God's  will; 
(Do  you  know  what's  good  or  ill?) 
Cheerfully  submit,  and  still 

Try  to  make  the  best  of  it. 
43 


MAKE    THE     BEST     OF     IT 
V 

What  you  can  help,  help,  if  you 
Would  unto  yourself  be  true; 
A  mistake  has  still  its  due — 

'Tis  to  make  the  best  of  it. 
Sorrow's  only  good  for  sin ; 
From  each  error  you  may  win 
Gain  or  wisdom: — so  begin 

To  make  the  very  best  of  it. 

VI 

There's  no  grief  that  can  betide, 
Loss,  or  wrong,  or  wounded  pride, 
But  will  have  a  brighter  side; 

Find  it,  make  the  best  of  it. 
Make  the  worst, — you  only  place 
Shame  and  anger  to  your  case  ; 
Better  keep  a  cheerful  face 

And  make  the  very  best  of  it. 


"TAKE  CARE!" 

WHEN  a  shadow  is  on  your  heart, 

And  you  know  not  the  reason  why, 
When  the  tear  unbidden  will  start, 

And  unbidden  will  come  the  sigh, 
Take  care! 

Watch,  for  there's  cause  for  fear; 

Watch,  for  an  enemy's  near; 
Watch  as  the  little  bird  watches 
When  the  sparrow-hawk's  in  the  air. 

When  the  hope  in  your  life  turns  pale, 

And  your  courage  dies  vaguely  out, 
When  you  feel  that  the  staff  may  fail 

You  have  trusted  without  a  doubt, 
Take  care! 

The  shadow  of  sorrow  is  long; 

Watch,  there  is  something  wrong; 
Watch  as  the  pilot  watches 
When  a  storjn  is  in  the  air. 

There's  a  feeling  you  know  not  whence, 
A  whisper  you  know  not  where, 
45 


TAKE    CARE! 

That  says  to  some  innermost  sense, 
Of  which  you  are  dimly  aware, 

Take  care! 

Fly  to  your  covert,  fly, 
And  danger  may  pass  you  by; 
Fly  as  the  hart  to  the  mountain 
When  the  hounds  are  scenting  the  air. 

When  the  love  that  was  strong  turns  weak, 
The  love  you  have  trusted  long, 

And  you  feel  that  you  need  not  speak, 
That  whatever  you  say  is  wrong, 

Take  care ! 

And  hide  you  a  little  while 
From  the  smile  that  is  only  guile, 

And  watch  as  the  little  bird  watches 

When  the  sparrow-hawk's  in  the  air. 

A  foe  that  is  fair  and  open 

You  may  fight  and  keep  your  place, 

But  who  can  fight  with  a  shadow 
That  never  will  show  its  face  ? 

Take  care! 

When  you  fear,  and  you  know  not  why, 
When  you  fail,  though  you  bravely  try, 

Then  watch  as  the  little  bird  watches 

When  the  sparrow-hawk's  in  the  air. 
46 


I  LOVE  MY  LOVE  BECAUSE  SHE  IS  SO 
FAIR 

I  LOVE  my  Love  because  she  is  so  fair ; 
The  golden  sunshine  in  her  golden  hair 

A  glory  is  above  her. 

Her  shining  eyes  are  like  the  stars  at  night, 
Her  charming  face  like  roses  red  and  white, 
She  is  so  dainty,  and  so  exquisite, 

It  is  a  joy  to  love  her. 

I  love  my  Love  because  she  is  so  gay, 
With  songs  and  smiles  she  greets  each  dawn 
ing  day, 

But  never  meets  a  sorrow; 
Glad  as  a  bird,  and  lovely  as  a  flower, 
Happy  to-day  in  sunshine  and  in  shower, 

And  trusting  for  to-morrow. 

I  love  my  Love  because  she  is  so  kind. 
So  gentle  and  so  modest  is  her  mind, 
The  lowliest  bespeak  her; 
47 


I     LOVE     MY     LOVE  —  SHE     IS     SO     FAIR 

Because  she  has  such  pity  for  their  woe, 
So  many  likelihoods  and  hopes  to  show, 
That  hearts  the  most  despairing  find,  I  know, 
New  strength  if  they  but  meet  her. 

I  love  my  Love  because  she  is  so  true. 
To  her  the  old  is  better  than  the  new, 

She  trusts  no  fickle  feeling. 
Her  faithful  words  spring  from  an  honest 

heart, 

No  falsehood  in  her  deeds  has  any  part, 
Her  very  smiles  are  innocent  of  art, 

She  knows  no  double  dealing. 

But  oh,  I  love  my  Love  for  this  thing  best, 
I  have  in  her  affection  perfect  rest, 

Whatever  may  befall, 
In  joy  or  sorrow  on  it  I  depend ; 
Her  will  with  my  will  does  so  sweetly  blend, 
I  know  she'll  love  me  to  the  very  end, 

And  love  me  best  of  all. 


THE  SWEETEST  HOUR 

IT  is  just  on  the  edge  of  the  dark, 
Ere  the  candles  or  lamps  are  lit; 
When  quietly  happy  and  silent 
The  father  and  mother  sit. 
When  the  children  come  in  from  play, 
The  children  ready  for  bed, 
And  sweet  little  kisses  are  given, 
And  innocent  good-nights  said. 

With  half  sleepy  chatter  and  laughter, 

Slowly  they  saunter  upstairs; 

And  soon  there's  an  exquisite  murmur 

Of  children  saying  their  prayers. 

There's  a  vision  of  white-robed  figures 

Flitting  about  in  the  gloom; 

And  the  echo  of  blessings  and  kisses 

Goes  drifting  from  room  to  room. 

The  father  sits  still  by  the  fireside 
And  listens  to  all  above; 
49 


THE     SWEETEST     HOUR 

Thinks  of  the  days  when  he  was  a  child, 
Remembers  their  joy  and  love, 
While  the  mother  with  tender  caring 
Hangs  over  each  little  bed; 
Leaves  a  kiss  on  each  rosy  mouth 
And  a  blessing  on  each  little  head. 

Oh,  sure,  at  the  children's  bedtime, 

In  the  still  and  solemn  air, 

The  gates  of  the  Holy  Land  swing  wide, 

Swing  wide  for  the  children's  prayer, 

There's  a  wonderful  peace  in  the  house, 

A  blessed  and  holy  fear, 

And  the  father  and  mother  know  well 

That  the  Angels  have  been  near. 


THE  MOTTO  IN  A  WEDDING  RING 

A  LOVER  gave  the  wedding  ring 

Into  the  goldsmith's  hand. 
"Grave  me,"  he  said,  "a  tender  thought 
Within  this  golden  band." 
The  goldsmith  graved, 
With  careful  art, 
"Titt  Death  us  part." 

The  wedding  bells  rang  gladly  out, 

The  husband  said,  "O  wife, 
Together  we  will  share  the  grief, 
The  happiness  of  life. 
I  give  to  thee 
My  hand,  my  heart, 
Till  Death  us  part." 

Twas  she  that  lifted  now  his  hand 
(O  love,  that  this  should  be!) 

Then  on  it  placed  the  golden  band, 
And  whispered,  tenderly: 
51 


THE    MOTTO    IN    A    WEDDING    RING 

"Till  Death  us  join, 
Lo,  thou  art  mine 
And  I  am  thine ! 

"And  when  Death  joins  we  never  more 

Shall  know  an  aching  heart; 
The  bridal  of  that  better  love 
Death  has  no  power  to  part. 
That  troth  will  be 
For  thee  and  me 
Eternity." 

So  up  the  hill  and  down  the  hill 
Through  fifty  changing  years 
They  shared  each  other's  happiness, 
They  dried  each  other's  tears. 
Alas!  alas! 

That  Death's  cold  dart 
Such  love  can  part! 

But  one  sad  day  she  stood  alone 

Beside  his  narrow  bed; 
She  drew  the  ring  from  off  her  hand, 
And  to  the  goldsmith  said: 
"Oh,  man,  who  graved 
With  careful  art, 
Till  Death  us  part/ 
52 


WINGED     LOVERS 

"Now  grave  four  other  words  for  me : 

'Till  Death  us  join.' "    He  took 
The  precious  golden  band  once  more, 
With  solemn,  wistful  look, 
And  wrought  with  care, 
For  love,  not  coin, 
"Till  Death  us  join." 


WINGED  LOVERS 

IN  lands  unvexed  with  wintry  glooms, 
Where  white  and  yellow  jasmine  blooms, 

And  myrtles  blush  in  flowers, 
The  very  woods  know  this  sweet  date, 
And  every  bird  doth  choose  a  mate 

In  its  propitious  hours. 

The  Carrier- Pigeons  come  and  go, 
And  melodies  pass  to  and  fro, 

For  bird  sings  back  to  bird ; 
With  echoes  sweet  the  forest  rings, 
And  by  the  fluttering  of  wings 

The  happy  air  is  stirred. 

Bright  Humming-Birds  of  many  a  hue — 
Ruby  and  green  and  gold  and  blue — 
Are  telling  love's  sweet  dream; 

53 


WINGED     LOVERS 

And  Bobolinks  in  Cuban  groves 
Have  their  first  thought  of  nests  and  loves 
In  Northern  meadows  green. 

The  Ring-Dove  curves  his  pretty  throat, 
And  cooes  and  cooes  his  wildwood  note 

Till  his  coy  mate  is  blest ; 
And  purple  Martins  seek  again, 
'Mong  pleasant  haunts  of  kindly  men, 

Their  last  year's  happy  nest. 

While  Mocking-Birds  from  every  tree 
Pour  in  ecstatic  melody 

The  hopes  for  which  they  pine. 
Bird  of  a  thousand  songs,  explain 
This  canticle  of  bliss  and  pain — 

This  wondrous  Valentine ! 

Some  wise  winged  lovers  will  not  roam, 
But  choose  and  wed  and  make  their  home 

In  their  own  summer  land ; 
While  others  wander  far  away, 
Trusting  their  fate  from  day  to  day — 

A  happy,  thoughtless  band 

That  meet  with  danger,  want,  and  pain, 
Are  pinched  with  cold,  and  wet  with  rain, 
Yet  'mid  their  cares  are  glad, 
54 


NO     HOUSE     WITHOUT    ITS          HUSIl 

And  sing  and  work  and  toil  and  fight, 
But  tell  each  other  they  are  right, 
For  love  is  seldom  sad. 

"Imprudent  lovers!  'twere  as  well 

'Mid  tropic  wealth  and  warmth  to  dwell. 

Poor  foolish  birds!"  What  then? 
Love  thrives  on  what  the  prudent  fear. 
If  birds  are  foolish  once  a  year, 

How  often,  pray,  are  men? 


THERE   IS    NO   HOUSE  WITHOUT   ITS 
"HUSH" 

THERE  is  no  house  without  its  "Hush." 

The  Mother  keeps 
Sweet  vigils  o'er  the  snowy  sheet 
That  wraps  the  restless  form  so  sweet, 
The  little  dimpled  hands  and  feet  : 

The  Mother  keeps 
Delightful  watch.     With  rosy  blush 
And  lifted  finger  whispers,  "Hush," 

The  Baby  sleeps. 

There  is  no  house  without  its  "Hush." 

The  Mother  keeps 

Such  anxious  watch,  and  kneeling  prays  — 
55 


NO     HOUSE     WITHOUT     ITS 

"Ah,  God,  so  few  have  been  his  days, 
So  sweet  and  gentle  are  his  ways." 

The  Mother  keeps 
A  lifted  prayer  till  she  can  say 
"Hush,  Hush,  tread  noiselessly  to-day ; 

He  sleeps,  He  sleeps." 

There  is  no  house  without  its  "Hush." 

Joy  holds  no  lease: 
And  up  and  down  each  silent  hall 
Love  hears  Death's  solemn  footsteps  fall; 
And  answers  mutely  to  his  call : — 

Joy  holds  no  lease. 
We  have  no  words  Death's  will  to  stay — 

"Depart  in  peace." 

There  is  no  Soul  without  its  "Hush." 

Life  hath  surcease, 
Sweet,  restful  pauses,  when  we  hear 
Some  wondrous  voice — low,  sweet  and  clear — 
Say,  "Come,  Beloved,  for  I  am  here." 

Life  hath  surcease, 
Calm,  holy  hours  when  we  are  still, 
And  hush  our  Souls  to  all  God's  will, 

In  perfect  peace. 


DISSATISFIED 

THIS  is  the  way  with  me— I  vaguely  sigh,  / 

Hating  the  weary  sameness  of  each  day ;  \V 

The  noiseless  round  of  common  tasks  that  try 
My  patience  dumbly,  like  a  slow  decay. 
My  days  are  all  alike,  a  change  would  be 
Like  giving  to  a  captive  liberty. 


So  much  I  said  in  my  unthankful  mood : 
Then  One  made  answer,  lifting  up  a  face 
Solemn  and  sweet  as  a  beatitude — 
"Hath  God  not  set  thee  in  a  happy  place?" 
The  heart  unrestful  sighs  for  change  in  vain, 
It  seldom  comes  with  pleasure,  oft  with  pain. 

"Art  thotf  'so  weary'  of  thy  mother's  love? 
'So  weary'  of  thy  father's  brooding  care? 
So  tired  of  halcyon  days  that  only  move 
To  the  sweet  calls  of  duty  and  of  prayer  ? 
Art  weary  of  God's  blessing?    Would  thou  flee 
Out  of  the  fold  where  He  hath  sheltered  thee  ? 
57 


AFTER         PATIENCE 

"Sing  like  a  bird  within  thy  happy  nest, 
Bloom  like  a  flower  beneath  thy  cloudless  sky, 
Be  like  a  child  upon  thy  mother's  breast, 
And  pray  that  this  change  only  come  to  thee — 
A  Thankful  Heart : — then  thy  long  weary  days 
Would  be  too  short  for  happiness  and  praise." 


AFTER  "PATIENCE" 

Low  amber  lights  across  the  dim  horizon, 
No  moon,  no  stars,  only  the  ghost  of  daylight, 
Only  the  sad  wind  sighing  through  gray  rushes, 
Lulled  at  the  dewfall. 

Then  to  me,  musing,  came  a  dream,  a  vision : 
A  maid  with  lute  and  lily,  softly  caroling 
A  mournful  roundelay,  the  frail  strings  sighing 
With  song  too  precious. 

A  damsel  weariful  and  subtly  tender, 
With  pale  robes  clinging  in  the  misty  gloaming, 
And  hair  unbound,  and  sad  eyes  looking  back 
ward, 

To  the  dead  ages. 
58 


AFTER   "PATIENCE" 

Singing  a  song  too,  too  intense  and  pleading: 
"Beauty  return  unto  the  haunts  of  mortals, 
For  thou  art  exquisite  and  always  precious, 
Supremely  precious!" 

Ah!  then  the  wonder,  the  delight,  the  passion 
Of  lovely  maidens  singing  in  the  twilight, 
Maidens  ethereal,  pale  aesthetic  shadows, 
Consummate  angels. 

Long-haired,    and    clothed    about    with    tender 

colors, 

Soft  greens  and  grays,  and  shades  impalpable, 
And  dead-leaf  tints,  each  slender  maiden  clasping 
A  wan  white  lily; 

Touching  her  lute  with  sweet  lips  and  white  fin 
gers, 

Until  it  throbbed  forth  little  songs  like  kisses, 
Songs  all  too  full  of  love  and  tears  and  laughter, 
Intense  and  utter. 

Ah !  vision  too  delightsome,  too,  too  gracious, 
Impossible,  beyond  our  deep  aspiring! 
For  we've  forgotten  Medieval  Beauty 
Craving  the  Future. 
59 


AFTER      PATIENCE" 

We  are  too  commonplace  for  maids  ethereal, 
And  "Early  English"  damsels  do  not  take  us 
Like  the  bright  girls,  in  Ulsters  and  in  Derbys, 
Who  scold  our  servants, 

Order  our  lives,  perchance,  "just  too  distinctly," 
And  hold  themselves  as  models  for  our  worship : 
We  may  "live  up  to  them."     Is  it  not  better 
To  do  that  truly? 

Then  maids  with  Lute  and  Lily  farewell  sweetly  ; 
When  Time  runs  back  again  to  fetch  day  golden 
Perchance  we'll  meet — I  heard  a  sound  of  laugh 
ter, 

And  Kitty  saying: 

"What  are  you  doing,  Jack,  out  here  at  dewfall? 
You'll  have  pneumonia  next.     Here  is  a  tele 
gram, 

And  if  you  wish  to  catch  the  train  to  Boston, 
Well,  you  must  hurry. 

"I've  packed  your  traps,  love,  and  your  supper's 

waiting. 
What    is   the    matter,   Jack?     Have   you   been 

dreaming?" 

60 


DAVIE'  s   WOOING 

"Why,  yes,  I  think  I  have.    Come,  let's  to  sup 
per. 

Where's  the  telegram?" 


DAVIE'S  WOOING 

"O  JENNY,  cease  your  merry  song, 
And  stay  your  busy  spinning; 

Ye  ken  that  I've  been  wooing  long, 
And  yet  I'm  but  beginning; 

For  aye  something  or  ither's  wrong, 
And  sets  me  back  in  winning. 

"If  I  were  just  some  bonnie  flower 
Upon  your  breast  reclining, 

Maybe  you'd  ken  in  some  bright  hour 
That  I  for  you  was  pining; 

Maybe  I'd  find  some  unkent  power 
My  heart  with  yours  combining. 

"Or  if  I  was  some  bonnie  bird, 

Say  just  a  cushat  cooing, 
Or  if  a  summer  breeze  that  stirr'd 

Whatever  you  was  doing, 
I  think  perhaps  I  might  be  heard, 

And  make  some  speed  in  wooing. 
61 


THE     HEART     S     HARVEST 

"O  lassie,  if  I  only  knew 

The  ways  of  ither's  wiling, 
What  bonnie  bird  or  flower  might  do 

In  Love's  most  sweet  beguiling, 
Perhaps  then  when  I  came  to  woo 

I,  too,  might  find  you  smiling." 

"  'Deed,  Davie  lad,  you're  much  mista'en 
For,  bird  or  flower  to  tarry; 

I  hate  to  gie  a  body  pain, 

If  you  your  plea  would  carry, 

Come  as  yoursel',  and  say  out  plain, 
'Jenny,  when  shall  we  marry  ?' " 


INTO  the  harvest  fields  to-day 

Singing  I  went — 

The  fields  where  once  I  met  the  May, 

All  flower  and  scent; 

And  there  rich  Autumn,  warm  and  sweet, 

Went  laughing  through  the  windy  wheat 
In  glad  content. 

Both  hands  were  full  of  grass  and  grain, 
«  ,  Both  feet  kept  time 

62 


THE   HEART'S   HARVEST 

To  some  low  murmuring  refrain, 

Some  breathing  chime, 
That  blew  through  golden  ears  and  leaves 
The  promise  of  the  full  ripe  sheaves 

In  quaint  old  rhyme: 

"This  if  the  happy  harvest-time: 
Then  cut  the  corn  and  press  the  wine; 
Gather  the  sheaves,  and  load  the  wain, 
And  bring  the  'Harvest-Home'  again." 

And  I  was  glad  as  glad  could  be 

To  meet  her  there; 

"O  Queen !"  I  said,  "give  unto  me 

My  harvest  fair — 

My  splendid  lover,  strong  and  true, 

Whose  witching  eyes  of  tender  blue 

My  heart  ensnare. 

"The  golden  corn,  the  ruby  wine, 

Is  not  the  best; 

A  richer  'Harvest-Home'  is  mine, 

A  sweeter  quest. 

Give  me  my  lover !     In  his  kiss 

I  have  a  rounded  world  of  bliss : 

Keep  all  the  rest." 

63 


WHEN  NANNIE  AND  I  ARE  SLEIGHING 

LET  poets  idly  dream  and  sing 
The  beauty  of  the  windy  spring, 

And  in  green  fields  go  Maying: 
Better  by  far  is  a  winter  night, 
When  snows  lie  deep  and  hard  and  white, 
And  stars  look  down  with  twinkling  light 

On  Nan  and  me  out  sleighing. 

The  moonlight  makes  a  fairer  day ; 
The  restless  horses  seem  to  say, 

"Oh,  why  are  you  delaying?" 
They  spurn  the  ground  with  flying  feet, 
The  sleigh  bells  tinkle  clear  and  sweet — 
Life  has  never  a  joy  to  beat 

Nannie's  and  mine  out  sleighing. 

My  love  then  nestles  near  my  arm, 
Among  the  furs  so  soft  and  warm ; 
And  I,  my  heart  obeying, 
64 


NANNIE     AND     I     ARE     SLEIGHING 

Bend  down  to  see  her  beaming  eyes, 
Bend  down  to  catch  her  loving  sighs, 
And  oh !  the  time  too  swiftly  flies — 
When  Nannie  and  I  are  sleighing. 

For  in  the  morn,  when  friends  are  by, 
Nannie  is  always  still  and  shy — 

She  hears  not  what  I'm  saying; 
But  nestling  in  my  sleigh,  I  know 
She  answers  every  whisper  low. 
Ah  me !  how  quickly  love  can  grow 

When  Nannie  and  I  are  sleighing ! 

I  wooed  her  in  the  summer  bright, 
In  festive  dance  and  moon-lit  night, 

And  on  the  sea-sands  straying; 
But,  oh !  for  all  I  would  not  miss 
The  eager  joy,  the  perfect  bliss, 
The  whispered  "Yes,"  the  trembling  kiss, 

When  Nannie  and  I  are  sleighing. 


A  DREAM  VALENTINE 

I  FOUND  in  dreams,  a  place  of  shade  and  flowers 
And  sweet  long  grasses,  swaying  by  a  stream. 

There,  in  deep  lulling  peace  and  poppied  bowers, 
A  maiden,  with  a  heart,  asleep  did  dream. 

Sleeping  and  dreaming  on  St.  Valentine 

Of  Love,  forever  crowned  with  light  divine. 

Seeing  in  vision  how  the  feast  was  set 
Within  a  splendid  palace,  all  alight, 

Where  noble  youths  with  lovely  maidens  met 
To  spend  in  revels  the  delicious  night. 

Sweet  Juliet  bow  her  heart  to  Love's  command 
When    Romeo    kissed    "the    wonder    of    her 
hand." 

And  in  that  forest  green  throughout  all  time 
Arden's  immortal  umbrage — she  could  see 

Orlando  writing  his  fond  valentine 
To  birdlike  Rosalind,  on  every  tree. 
66 


A     DREAM     VALENTINE 

O  sylvan  shadows!  still  by  lovers  seen 

In  their  sweet  fairy  land  of  "Love's  young 
dream." 

Prospero's  magic  wand  for  her  did  move 
The  waves  that  girdled  his  enchanted  Isle. 

She  saw  Miranda's  heart  beat  high  with  love 
When  first  it  felt  young  Ferdinand's  bright 
smile. 

Miranda!  Earth's  sweet  wonder!     Second  Eve! 
That  in  a  second  Eden,  spells  oUd  weave. 

She  dreamed,  Othello,  too,  did  on  this  day 
Win  Desdemona  through  her  fond  surprise, 

Lorenzo  steal  with  Jessica  away, 
And  Slender  get  sore  hurt  with  two  bright 
eyes. 

Sweet  Annie  Page!     Never  did  fates  design 
For  foolish  swain,  a  fairer  valentine. 

For  oh!  Love's  chronicles  are  one  bright  day 
And  lovers  choose  when  Valentine  shall  be ; 

Their  smiles  turn  February  into  May 
And  in  their  lives  of  golden  ecstasy 

The  long  long  happy  years  do  all  combine 
To  make  a  green  perpetual  Valentine. 
67 


AN  IDYL 

HE  took  her  willing  hand  in  his 

And  through  the  fields  they  went  at  morn. 
Her  eyes  were  like  the  summer  skies, 

Her  hair,  the  tint  of  ripened  corn. 
He  looked  into  her  beaming  eyes, 

Her  hair  was  blown  against  his  cheek  ; 
Heart  answered  heart  in  happy  sighs, 

And  love  found  out  how  love  may  speak. 

"Fairest  and  dearest!  all  my  life 

Is  bound  with  thine !  Thou  art  to  me 
The  joy  supreme,  the  richest  prize! 

I  love  but  thee,  and  only  thee. 
Wilt  thou  forsake  all  other  love 

And  take  my  love  to  fill  thy  heart? 
If  so,  then  sweetest,  there  is  naught 

That  ever  more  our  lives  can  part." 

Her  eyes  said  all  in  one  shy  glance  ; 
Oh !  it  was  heaven  to  see  them  lift. 
68 


A   LIGHT   HEART  AND  A  TRUE 

Her  face  grew  rosy  near  his  face, 
Her  lips  confirmed  the  precious  gift 

The  river  murmured  to  their  vows ;    - 

'Mid  whispering  leaves,  the  birds  sang  low. 

It  might  have  happened  yesterday. 
It  was — six  thousand  years  ago! 


A  LIGHT  HEART  AND  A  TRUE 

SOMEBODY  has  no  valentine; 

A  simple  country  lass  is  she, 
And  in  a  lonely  place  she  dwells 

In  lowly  cot  beside  the  sea. 
Just  seventeen  her  years.     Her  hair 

Is  golden,  and  her  eyes  are  blue. 
No  witching  beauty  she,  but  Ah ! 

She  has  a  light  heart,  and  a  true. 

Somebody  works  the  whole  day  long; 

Her  hands,  though  small,  are  strong  and  brown 
And  lack,  she  fears,  the  dainty  touch 

That  maidens  have,  who  live  in  town. 
Somebody  sings  from  morn  till  night 

Songs  that  are  scarce  worth  listening  to, 
And  not  a  talent  has  she;  but, 

She  has  a  light  heart,  and  a  true. 
69 


WAITING 

Somebody  does  not  care  for  wealth, 

Somebody  shrinks  from  pornp  and  pride ; 
Her  lover  might  be  poor,  and  yet 

For  him,  her  door  would  open  wide. 
Somebody  wears  a  cotton  gown, 

Somebody's  wants  are  very  few. 
Now  who  will  be  her  valentine 

And  gain  a  light  heart  and  a  true? 


WAITING 

O  WOMAN  with  sorrow-haunted  eyes 

Watching  the  dying  day, 
Watching  and  waiting  with  patient  look 

From  dawn  'til  evening  gray — 
Tell  me,  who  are  thy  coming  friends? 

"Angels  to  bear  me  away." 

Few  and  sad  are  the  years  of  all, 

Weary  and  all  unblest. 
For  the  body,  tears  and  pain  and  death ; 

For  the  heart,  a  long  unrest. 
WTiat  hope  for  days  and  years  of  pain? 

"The  Father  knoweth  best." 
70 


WAITING 

But  the  Father's  ways  are  hard  to  tread, 
Green  meadows  nor  shady  grove. 

The  flinty  rocks  for  our  bleeding  feet, 
The  cloudy  skies  above. 

"Wisdom  is  guiding  each  weary  step; 
Beyond  the  clouds  is  love." 

Then  if  the  battle  is  fought  and  won, 

Won,  and  the  conflict  o'er, 
Why  dost  thou  linger  while  thy  sad  eyes 

Pray  for  that  better  shore? 
"I  linger  until  the  Angel  comes 

My  footsteps  to  go  before." 

Yet  the  world  is  busy  toiling  on, 

Toiling  from  dawn  'til  late 
Trying  to  win  from  the  curse  of  sin 

Souls  for  a  nobler  fate. 
And  thou  in  the  holiest  calm  dost  sit; 

"They  also  serve,  who  wait." 


THE  DAYS  THAT  ARE  NO  MORE 

O  LOVE,  what  golden  days  were  ours 
Among  the  corn  and  cotton  flowers, 
Under  the  trees  so  thick  and  cool 
And  at  the  heron-haunted  pool, 
And  by  the  river  deep  and  quick 
In  Autumn  when  the  nuts  lay  thick. 

What  races  o'er  the  prairie  free! 
What  lingerings  neath  the  vine-clad  tree! 
What  fishing  on  the  mountain  lake! 
What  squirrel  hunts  in  the  cedar-brake ! 
What  gatherings  by  the  pine  fire's  blaze! 
What  pure,  what  Eden-tinted  days! 

And  what  remains  of  days  so  fair? 
A  Memory  that  is  half  a  prayer; 
A  Love  which  owns  immortal  ties 
And  lifts  its  head  above  the  skies ; 
A  Hope  which  gilds  with  heavenly  light 
The  darkest  hours  of  earthly  night. 
72 


LOVED  TOO  LATE 

YEAR  after  year  with  glad  content 
In  and  out  of  our  house  he  went, 

In  and  out. 

Ever  for  us  the  skies  were  clear, 
His  heart  carried  the  care  and  fear, 

The  care  and  doubt. 

Our  hands  held  with  a  careless  hold 
All  that  he  won  of  honor  and  gold 

In  toil  and  pain. 

O,  dear  hands,  that  our  burdens  bore, 
Hands  that  shall  toil  for  us  no  more, 

Never  again! 

O  it  was  hard  to  learn  our  loss 
Bearing  daily  the  heavy  cross, 

The  cross  he  bore, 

To  say  with  an  aching  heart  and  head, 
"Would  to  God  the  love  now  dead 

Were   here   once   more!" 
73 


WITH     ELBOWS     BARE 

For  when  the  love  we  held  too  light 
Was  gone  away  from  our  speech  and  sight, 

No  bitter  tears, 

No  passionate  words  of  fond  regret, 
No  yearning  grief  could  pay  the  debt 

Of  thankless  years. 

Ah,  now,  while  the  sweet  love  lingers  near, 
Grudge  not  the  tender  words  of  cheer, 

Leave  none  unsaid. 
For  the  heart  can  have  no  sadder  fate 
Than  some  day  to  awake — too  late, 

And  find  Love — dead ! 


WITH  ELBOWS  BARE 

i 

I  STOOD  in  the  heat  with  my  elbows  bare, 
And  the  honest  sweat  in  my  dusty  hair; 
And  I  said  to  myself, — How  happy  to  be 
Away  in  the  woods,  or  out  on  the  sea : 

But  patience!  patience!  work  your  best; 

After  labor  comes  sweetest  rest; 
And  after  planning,   and  toiling,  and  care, 
Holidays  plenty  may  fall  to  my  share. 
74 


WITH     ELBOWS     BARE 
II 

I  stood  in  the  heat  with  my  elbows  bare, 
And  the  hot  wind  blew  through  my  dusty  hair; 
I  said, — There  would  be  some  good  of  my  life 
If  I  were  loved  by  a  sweet  little  wife: 
Patience !  patience !  likely  as  not 
Some  good  girl  will  fall  to  my  lot; 
I'll  stick  to  my  work,  content  to  tarry 
Till  I  have  money  enough  to  marry. 

Ill 

I  stood  in  the  heat  with  my  elbows  bare, 
I  was  weary  and  faint  with  noise  and  glare; 
I  thought  to  myself, — What  joy  it  would  be 
To  own  a  home  on  some  breezy  lea; 

A  home  of  my  own,  where  I  could  rest 

Like  a  bird  within  its  quiet  nest. 
But  I'll  stick  to  my  work  and  likely  as  not 
Somebody,  somewhere,  is  building  my  cot. 

IV 

I'll  keep  to  my  work  and  hammer  away: 
It  is  for  the  wife  that  is  coming  some  day; 
It  is  for  the  home  that  is  building  for  me 
By  some  breezy  common  or  open  sea; 
75 


WITH     ELBOWS    BARE 

'Tis  for  holidays  coming,  calm  and  sweetr 
I  bare  my  elbows  and  work  in  the  heat; 
That  I  bare  my  elbows,  and  cheerily  say, 
Through  the  heat  and  glare  of  the  summer  day : 
"There's  a  time  to  work,  there's  a  time  to  play; 
And,  man,  you  are  earning  your  holiday." 

V 

That  was  ten  years  since;  I've  a  home  to-day, 
On  a  pleasant  point  by  a  breezy  bay; 
I've  a  loving  wife;  I  have  children  three; 
I  am  just  as  happy  as  I  can  be : 
So  you  see,  for  me,  'twas  a  rare  good  fate 
To  bare  my  elbows,  and  work,  and  wait. 


THE  FARMER'S  SONG 

THE  farmer  stood  at  his  open  door; 

Looked  north,  and  south,  and  east,  and  west; 
"Good  wife,  the  swallows  are  back  once  more — 
Back  again  to  their  last  year's  nest. 
I'm  off  to  the  fields  to  speed  the  plow ; 
The  birds  are  singing  on  every  bough. 

"The  skies  are  dreaming  of  summer  blue; 

Trees  are  dreaming  of  rustling  leaves; 
And  I  have  a  dream — God  make  it  true! — 
Of  standing  corn  and  of  golden  sheaves; 
Of  meadows  green  and  of  new-made  hay, 
And  reapers  singing  at  dawn  of  day. 

"Call  all  the  boys ;  we  must  go  a-field, 
To  speed  the  plow  and  cast  the  seed ; 
God  bless  the  seed,  and  make  it  to  yield 
Plenty,  both  man  and  beast  to  feed! 
God  bless  the  seed  and  speed  the  plow, 
For  birds  are  singing  on  every  bough." 
77 


THE     NIGHT     BEFORE     THE     MOWING 

Then  out  with  his  boys  the  farmer  went 

Into  the  fields  the  soft  spring  morn, 
Sowing  the  seed  with  a  glad  content; 

Singing,  while  sowing  the  good  seed  corn: 
"God  bless  the  harrow,  and  bless  the  plow; 
The  corn,  the  wheat,  and  the  barley  mow !" 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE   THE   MOWING 

OH,  the  night  before  the  mowing, 

When  the  warm  south  wind  was  blowing, 
It  was  pleasant  and  sweet  to  pass 
Ankle-deep  through  flowers  and  grass — 

Grass  and  flowers  so  proudly  blowing 

On  the 'night  before  the  mowing. 

But  when  next  my  feet  went  straying, 

Men  were  busy  with  the  haying; 
I  saw  the  sharp  scythe  swiftly  pass 
Through  nodding  flowers  and  blowing  grass, 

Till  blowing  grass  and  flowers  were  lying 

Underneath  the  hot  sun — dying. 

But  'twas  not  long  ere  sweet  content 
Filled  the  meadow  -with  wondrous  scent ; 
78 


THE     NIGHT     BEFORE     THE     MOWING 

And  flowers  and  grass,  as  bleaching  hay, 
Had  learned  the  meaning  of  the  May, 

And  why  they  were  so  proudly  blowing 

On  the  night  before  the  mowing. 

Maiden,  unto  woman  growing, 
Maiden,  with  the  loose  hair  flowing, 

With  eyes  blue  as  the  skies  above, 

Face  as  fair  as  the  rose  of  love, 
Crowned  with  youth  and  joy  and  beauty, 
Thou  shalt  learn  diviner  duty. 

Oft  when  life  has  fairest  showing 
It  is  ready  for  the  mowing; 

Then  should  trouble,  pain  or  strife 

Lay  the  blade  to  thy  young  life, 
Do  not  fear ;  on  some  sweet  morrow 
Thou  shalt  learn  the  why  of  sorrow. 


HARVEST  SONG 

WHEN  roses  were  budding,  and  clover  was  sweet, 
And  the  grasses  were  cool,  and  long,  and  green, 
There    was    laughter   and    song  with   the   hay 
maker's  feet, 

And  labor  went  merrily  on  between; 
Till  the  hay  was  gathered  from  every  lea, 
And  the  babbling  brooks  ran  to  tell  the  sea, 
"The  hay  is  home !" 

When  the  wheat  was  yellow  in  all  the  land, 
Then  glad  was  the  earth  with  the  harvest  cry ; 

And  the  heart  kept  tune  with  the  binding  hand — 
Kept  tune  with  the  sheaves  piled  up  so  high, 

With  the  loaded  wains,  and  the  full  barn's  glee, 

While  the  babbling  brooks  ran  to  tell  the  sea, 
"The  wheat  is  home." 

And  under  the  vines  in  the  sunny  lands, 
What   singing   and   laughing   from   morn   to 
night! 

80 


HARVEST    SONG 

What  beating  of  feet  and  clapping  of  hands 
When  the  grapes  were  gathered — the  purple 

and  white! 
When  the  grapes  were  ripe  and  the  wine  trod 

free, 

Then  the  babbling  brook  ran  to  tell  the  sea, 
"The  wine  is  home." 

In  the  cool  sweet  shades  where  the  apples  grow, 
Under  the  sun  where  the  cranes  turn  sweet, 

Far  in  the  cotton  fields  white  as  snow, 

Down  in  the  swamps  where  the  rice  is  beat — 

There's  never  a  land  in  the  wide  world  free 

Where  the  babbling  brooks  have  not  told  the  sea, 
"The   harvest's  .home." 

Then  arise  and  sing!     Take  the  sounding  lyre; 

Let  a  grateful  hymn  from  the  nations  rise ; 
Let  the  winds  and  seas  with  the  music  quire, 
In  a  shout  of  joy  that  shall  cleave  the  skies : 
"Full  are  our  hearts,  and  our  barns,  and  our 

hands, 

Glory  to  God  for  the  bountiful  lands! 
The  wine,  and  the  wheat,  and  the  sweet  honey 
comb! 
Glory  to  God,  for  the  harvest  is  home! 

The  harvest  is  home!" 
Si 


SPEED  THE  PLOW 

"SPEED  the  plow,"  and  the  plowman 
Went  whistling  out  of  the  door; 
The  horses  were  standing  harnessed, 
Where  the  brown  fields  lay  before 
Strong,  and  patient,  and  willing, 
Waiting  their  master's  word; 
Thinking  his  cheery  whistle 
The  pleasantest  sound  they  heard. 

"Come,  Rally  and  Trusty,  be  off;" 
Slow  and  steady,  they  went; 
Over  the  level  and  down  the  hill, 
Going  with  ready  consent. 
Now  it  was  glinting  sunshine, 
Now  it  was  silvery  rain, 
But  for  neither  was  slackened 
Their  steady  and  patient  strain. 

The  plowman  guided  the  plow, 
Giving  the  word  and  sign ; 
82 


SPEED     THE     PLOW 

And  every  fresh-made  furrow, 
Was  clean  and  straight  as  a  line. 
The  scent  of  the  fresh-turned  earth, 
And  the  blowing  trees  were  sweet; 
And  they  blent  with  the  glowing  hope 
Of  the  ripe  and  yellow  wheat. 

I  thought  of  the  field  of  Life, 
And  the  harvest  it  must  bear, 
Of  the  hard  and  constant  strife, 
Of  the  sharp  and  steady  share. 
Of  the  road  up-hill  and  down, 
Of  the  strong  and  guiding  hand, 
Of  the  Master's  cheerful  word, 
And  his  sure  and  wise  command. 

And  I  said  to  myself,  "Go  plow, 
Heeding  the  touch  and  the  rein, 
Heeding  the  word  and  the  sign, 
That  never  cometh  in  vain. 
Then,  if  the  up-hill  road, 
Or  the  level  road  be  thine, 
The  furrows  of  Life  will  be 
"Clean  and  straight  as  a  line." 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  WORKER 

How  would  it  feel,  I  wonder, 

If  the  meadows  near  and  far 
Had  never  a  buttercup 

And  never  a  daisy  star? 
Never  a  sweet  wild  violet 

And  never  a  primrose  gay, 
Only  the  grasses  needful 

For  making  the  useful  hay. 

If,  in  the  still  green  forest, 

There  wasn't  a  wild  song-bird; 
If  robin  and  thrush  and  wren 

Nobody  ever  heard. 
If  all  was  for  simple  use, 

Nothing  for  beauty  or  joy; 
Oh !  how  weary  were  life 

Without  some  pleasant  alloy! 

But  Nature  teaches  us  ever 
A  lesson  that's  far  more  sweet : 
84 


A    SONG    FOR    THE    WORKER 

See  how  the  crimson  poppies 
Follow  the  golden  wheat ! 

Wheat  for  the  bread  of  the  world, 
Poppies  for  beauty  alone; 

Wheat  and  poppies  together 
In  every  age  and  zone. 

Always  the  morning-glories 

Cling  to  the  cotton  plant, 
While  over  the  snowy  harvest 

Thrushes  and  blackbirds  chant. 
The  strength  of  the  forest  trees 

To  the  duties  of  life  belong, 
But  their  cool  green  palaces 

Are  for  the  wild  birds'  song. 

Take  to  thy  heart  the  lesson, 

Man  with  the  downcast  eyes! 
Many  an  innocent  joy 

Bright  in  thy  pathway  lies. 
Still  let  thy  daily  labor 

Beauty  and  pleasure  greet, 
Just  as  the  idle  poppy 

Brightens  the  fields  of  wheat. 

Just  as  the  morning-glories 
Climb  up  the  cotton  plant, 
85 


NUTTING 

Just  as  the  birds,  when  building, 
Unto  their  labor  chant. 

The  stress  of  thy  daily  labor 
With  beauty  of  love  renew; 

Busily  toil  in  the  wheatfield, 
But,  gather  the  poppies  too! 


NUTTING 

BONNIE  head  from  wee  door  peeping, 

"Wonder  if  Jack  Frost  is  sleeping!'* 
Chincopins  are  riper  I  know, 

Through  the  leaves  I  see  them  glow. 
Hazel  nuts  are  rustling  down 

All  among  the  leaves  so  brown, 
Filberts   from  their  prickly  pod 

Tottering,  tumbling  to  the  sod. 

All  the  woods  with  light  are  glowing, 

Gorgeous  leaves  to  southward  blowing. 
See  that  Red  Bird !  oh !  how  bright ! 

He's  just  aching  for  a  fight 
With  that  logger  up  the  street ; 

Calling,  calling  sweet  so  sweet! 
As  he  plumes  his  breast  of  red, 

Sweet  indeed !     A  Loggerhead ! 
86 


NUTTING 

Zigzag  down  the  fence  agoing, 

Where  the  goldenrod  is  growing, 
See  that  nutter,  light  and  gay, 

Not  a  minute  can  she  stay; 
Frisking  now  through  apple  trees, 

Highway  for  the  honey  bees, 
Dressed  in  garb  of  silver  shine 

Fitting  like  'twas  Worth's  design, 

Oh !  what  fun !  this  pleasure-going 

When  the  winds  ripe  nuts  are  sowing; 
Bright  the  nut  and  bright  her  eye, 

Through  the  woods  you  hear  her  cry, . 
"Chuck,  chuck,  chuck  them  down,  I  say, 

Bonny  nuts  to  hide  away." 
In  the  earth  how  will  she  know 

How  to  find  them,  if  there's  snow? 

Nibble,  nibble,  white  teeth  cutting, 

Hungry  work  is  busy  nutting. 
Merry  little  worker  she, 

Model  for  the  busy  bee. 
Guess  she'll  pick  a  peck  to-day 

In  her  bins  to  tuck  away, 
For  the  winter's  coming  fast 

With  its  rain,  and  bitter  blast. 
87 


NUTTING 

Nutting  all  alone  is  dreary, 

Some  one  coming  would  be  cheery. 
Ah!  that  dandy  up  above 

With  my  lady  lies  in  love ! 
Was  he  trysted  in  his  place 

Or  attracted  by  her  grace? 
Now  behold  them  gay  as  gay 

Nutting  in  the  woody  way. 

Two  wee  heads  from  one  door  peeping 

Ah !  the  nutters  are  housekeeping. 
In  the  castle  near  the  sky 

She  has  laid  a  good  store  by. 
Hazel  nuts  and  filberts  sweet, 

Chincopins  to  form  a  treat, 
Thrifty  little  housewife  she, 

Model  now,  for  you  and  me. 


AFTER  HARVEST 

THE  days  of  the  harvest  are  past  again, 

We  have  cut  the  corn  and  bound  the  sheaves 
And  gathered  the  apples,  green  and  gold, 

'Mid  the  brown  and  crimson  orchard  leaves. 
With  a  flowery  promise  the  Spring  time  came 

With    the   building   birds   and  the   blossoms 

sweet. 
But  oh !  the  honey  and  fruit  and  wine ! 

And  oh !  the  joy  of  the  corn  and  wheat ! 
What  was  the  bloom  to  the  apple  gold? 

What  was  the  flower  to  the  honey-comb  ? 
What  was  the  song  that  sped  the  plow 

To  the  joyful  song  of  Harvest  Home? 

So  sweet,  so  fair  are  the  days  of  youth, 
So  full  of  promise,  so  gay  with  song, 

To  the  lilt  of  joy  and  the  dream  of  love, 
Right  merrily  go  the  hours  along. 

But  yet,  in  the  harvest  time  of  life 
We  never  wish  for  its  Spring  again. 
89 


AFTER     HARVEST 

We   have   tried   our   strength   and   proved   our 
heart, 

Our  hands  have  gathered  their  golden  gain. 
We  have  eaten  with  sorrow  her  bitter  bread 

And  Love  has  fed  us  with  honey-comb; 
Sweet  youth,  we  never  can  weep  for  thee 

When  Life  has  come  to  its  Harvest  Home. 

% 
When  apples  are  red  on  the  topmost  bough 

We  do  not  think  of  their  blossoming  hour; 
When  the  vine  hangs  low  with  its  purple  fruit 

We  do  not  long  for  its  pale  green  flower. 
So  then,  when  hopes  of  our  Spring  at  last 

Are  found  in  fruit  of  the  busy  brain 
In  the  heart's  sweet  love,  in  the  heart's  brave 
toil, 

We  shall  not  wish  for  our  youth  again. 
Ah  no !  we  shall  say  with  glad  content, 

"After  the  years  of  our  hard  unrest 
Thank  God  for  our  ripened  hopes  and  toil! 

Thank  God,  the  Harvest  of  Life  is  best  !" 


THANKSGIVING 

"HAVE  you  cut  the  wheat  in  the  blowing  fields, 

The  barley,  the  oats,  and  the  rye  ? 
The  golden  corn  and  the  pearly  rice? 

For  the  winter  days  are  nigh." 
"We  have  reaped  them  all  from  shore  to  shore 
And  the  grain  is  safe  on  the  threshing  floor." 

"Have  you  gathered  the  berries  from  the  vines 
And  the  fruit  from  the  orchard  trees? 

The  dew  and  the  scent  from  the  rose  and  thyme 
In  the  hive  of  the  honey-bees?" 

"The  peach  and  the  plum  and  the  apple  are  ours 

And  the  honey-comb  from  the  scented  flowers." 

"The  wealth  of  the  snowy  cotton  field 

And  the  gift  of  the  sugar  cane, 
The  savory  herb  and  the  nourishing  root, 
There  has  nothing  been  given  in  vain." 
"We  have  gathered  the  harvest  from  shore  to 

shore ; 

The  measure  is  full  and  running  o'er !" 
91 


THANKSGIVING 

Then  lift  up  the  head  with  a  song! 
And  lift  up  the  hands  with  a  gift ! 
To  the  Ancient  Giver  of  all 
The  spirit  of  gratitude  lift! 
For  the  joy  and  the  promise  of  Spring, 
For  the  hay  and  the  clover  sweet, 
The  barley,  the  rye  and  the  oats, 
The  rice,  the  corn  and  the  wheat, 
The  cotton,  the  sugar  and  fruit, 
The  flowers  and  the  fine  honey-comb, 
The  country  so  fair  and  so  free, 
The  blessing  and  glory  of  Home. 
'Thanksgiving !    Thanksgiving !   Thanksgiving !" 
Joyfully,  gratefully  call 
To  God,  the  "Preserver  of  Men," 
The  bountiful  Father  of  all ! 


A  HARVEST  HOME 

IT  is  not  long  since  we  with  happy  feet 

Stood  ankle  deep  in  grasses  fresh  and  green, 

While  in  the  apple  blossoms  pink  and  sweet 
The  singing  birds,  with  flashing  wings,  were 
seen. 

It  is  not  long  ago,  not  long  ago, 

Since  the  glad  winds  ran  through  the  tasseled 

corn 
This  way,  and  that  way — swaying  to  and  fro 

The  golden  wheat  waited  the  harvest  morn. 

Now,  all  the  silent  fields  are  brown  and  bare 
And  all  the  singing  birds  are  gone  away; 

But  peaceful  calm  is  in  the  hazy  air 
And  we,  content,  can  watch  the  sweet  decay. 

For  so,  the  hay  is  saved,  the  corn,  the  wheat, 
The  honey  from  a  thousand  scented  bowers. 
While  russet  apples  delicately  sweet 

Hang  where  once  hung  the  pink  white  apple 
flowers. 

93 


THE     BELLS     OF     TRINITY 

So  we  in  our  Life's  Autumn,  stilly  muse 
Upon  the  harvest  of  our  gathered  years, 

Finding  the  hopes  that  once  we  feared  to  lose 
Grown  perfect  through  our  toil  and  love  and 
tears. 

And  saying  gracefully,  "Although  their  flower 
Was  strangely  fair  and  sweet,  from  cup  to  root 

'Twas  best  they  change  with  us  from  hour  to 

hour, 
For  better  than  the  blossom  is  the  fruit." 


THE  BELLS  OF  TRINITY 

THE  bells  of  Trinity  ring  out 
And  far  and  wide  their  music  ring. 
Above  the  noise  and  tramp  and  shout 
Between  the  earth  and  heavens  they  ring. 

A  moment  stay 

Upon  your  way 

And  hear  them  say 
"Chime  happy  bells,  all  strife  above 
Chime,    chime    THE    BREAD    OF    LIFE    IS 
LOVE!" 

The  bells  of  Trinity  ring  out 
Like  tongues  of  Angels  glad  and  strong. 
94 


THE     BELLS     OF     TRINITY 

The  hammers'  beat,  the  workmen's  shout 
Their  wondrous  harmonies  prolong. 

A  moment  stay 

Upon  your  way 

And  hear  them  say 

"Brave  hearts,  true  hearts,  no  duty  shirk, 
Labor:— THE  SALT  OF  LIFE  IS  WORK!" 

The  bells  of  Trinity  ring  glad, 
Ring  happily  o'er  joy  and  grief ; 
And  hearts  with  dark  despairing,  sad, 
Find  in  their  chime  some  sweet  relief. 

"Hope  on,"  they  say, 

"The  dawning  day 

Drives  clouds  away. 
If  faint  and  thirsty  in  the  strife 
Then  hope ;  for  HOPE'S  THE  STREAM  OF 
LIFE." 

The  bells  of  Trinity  ring  clear 
Above  the  sounds  of  trade  and  gain 
And  weak  souls,  halting  in  their  fear, 
Perchance  may  hear  this  bolder  strain. 

"Flee  not  from  grief, 

Time  brings  relief, 

The  watch  is  brief; 
95 


THE     BELLS     OF     TRINITY 

Hold  on ;  be  patient  in  the  strife, 
For  PATIENCE  IS  THE  STRENGTH  OF 
LIFE." 

The  bells  of  Trinity  ring  sweet. 
Ah !  gentle  soul,  if  you  draw  near 
Perchance  may  drop  into  the  street 
Some  tones,  so  musical  and  clear, 

That  day  by  day 

Upon  your  way 

Your  soul  shall  say 
"I  know,  though  I  be  true  and  strong, 
THE     SWEETNESS     OF     MY     LIFE     IS 
SONG." 

The  bells  of  Trinity  ring  high. 

Ring  far  and  wide.     Ring  east  and  west. 

O  toiling  men  that  fear  and  sigh 

Hear  what  they  say  and  be  at  rest : 

"True  hearts,  good  cheer, 

There  is  no  fear 

For  God  is  near. 

However  hard  and  dark  the  strife 
Trust   HIM.     FAITH   IS   THE  LIGHT   OF 
LIFE." 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  IN  GRAY 

THERE'S  a  little  man  in  gray, 

That  many  a  time  a  day 
Passes  both  up  and  down  our  quiet  street; 

He  stops  at  every  door— 

The  rich  man's  and  the  poor — 
Then  hurries  on  with  quick  unresting  feet. 

He  does  not  care  to  speak 

To  men  whom  he  must  seek ; 
He  never  heeds  how  anxiously  they  wait ; 

He  sees  no  watching  eyes, 

No  looks  of  soft  surprise: 
Onward  he  goes  like  some  calm  careless  Fate. 

Within  his  hand  he  bears 
A  thousand  hopes  and  cares, 

Sealed  tokens  for  the  young,  the  old,  the  gay; 
No  word  of  Czar  or  King 
Can  half  such  changes  bring; 

No  one  is  watched  for  like  the  man  in  gray. 
97 


THE     LITTLE     MAN     IN     GRAY 

The  merchant,  risking  gold 

In  ventures   manifold; 
The  lover  pining  for  his  lady's  grace; 

Parents  that  fondly  pray 

For  children  far  away; 
The  statesman  plotting  for  some  power  or  place ; 

The  brave  men  fighting  hard 
For  some  well-earned  reward, 

And  timid  youths  that  only  watch  for  bread — 
All  ment  where'er  they  stay, 
Watch  for  the  man  in  gray, 

And  hear  with  beating  hearts  his  rapid  tread. 

Be  calm  and  cheerful  all, 

And  do  not  fear  his  call: 
Good  fortune  comes  as  easily  as  ill. 

The  little  man  in  gray, 

Though  he  call  every  day, 
Can  only  bring  whatever  is  God's  will. 


WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY 

0  PEARL  of  days !    When  Liberty 
Came  stepping  westward  o'er  the  sea, 

From  England's  pleasant  shore, 
She   said,   "St.   George,   still  keep   thy  charge: 

1  go  my  kingdom  to  enlarge, 

And  may  not  see  thee  more. 
Another  George  shall  bear  my  shield 
In  senate  hall  and  tented  field. 

"His  birth-hour  dawns.     Break,  glorious  day!" 
Her  swift  feet  made  a  shining  way 

Over  the  pathless  sea. 
She  kissed  the  boy  for  noble  fame, 
And  gave  him  his  immortal  name — 

Name  dear  to  Liberty; 

Then  bade  him  make  the  New  World  strong, 
To  comfort  all  the  Old  World's  wrong. 

And  shall  America  forget 

The  day  and  name  so  proudly  set? 

Let  the  glad  bells  ring  out; 
Fling  to  the  wind  our  battle  flags, 
99 


APRIL     JESTING 

Trampled  and  torn  to  glorious  rags; 

Make  the  loud  cannon  shout, 
That  the  sick  serfs  of  other  lands, 
Hearing,  may  break  away  their  bands. 

For,  sure  as  years  shall  wax  and  wane, 
This  day  shall  love  and  glory  gain, 

And  unborn  nations  pay, 
'Mid  Afric's  palms  and  Polar  snow, 
Europa's  culture,  Asia's  glow, 

Their  homage  to  this  day; 
And  of  Earth's  thousand  tongues,  not  one 
But  yet  shall   learn   "George  Washington." 


APRIL  JESTING 

I  HEARD  two  robins  singing  in  the  wood 

One    April   day, 
And  what  they  said  my  heart  well  understood 

That  April  day: 

"Oh,  love  is  sweet  through  all  the  busy  daytime ! 
Oh,  love  is  true  in  winter  and  in  May-time!" 
But  then,  you  know,  the  hour  was  Folly's  play 
time — 

'Twas  April  day. 
100 


APRIL     JESTING 

And  I,  to  keep  in  tune  the  merry  birds 

That  April  day, 

Sang    with    them    thoughtlessly    some    foolish 
words — 

Twas  April  day: 

"My  love  is  fair,  I  could  not  help  but  choose  him ; 
My  love  is  good,  I  could  not  bear  to  lose  him; 
My  love  is  wise,  oh !  what  could  I  refuse  him 

This  April  day? 

"Yet  should  he  hear  me  sing,  let  him  beware — 

'Tis  April  day; 
And  if  I  say,  'I  love  him/  have  no  care — 

'Tis  April  day. 

The  token  that  he  sends — oh  yes,  I  kiss  it; 
And  if  he  send  it  not,  I  sorely  miss  it ; 
But  promise,  song,  or  kiss,  now  pray  what  is  it 

On  April  day?" 

Singing  and  laughing  through  the  wood  I  came 

That  April  day, 
Until  a  clear,  strong  voice  sang  back  again : 

"O  April  day! 

This  girl  of  smiles  and  tears,  this  little  rover, 
With  pleasant  jesting  does  her  heart  discover. 
Thy  mirth  is  wisdom;  I,  her  happy  lover; 
Thou,  April— May." 
101 


TWO     NEW     YEAR     S     DAYS 

He  clasped  my  hand,  and  through  the  wood  we 
went 

That  April  day, 
Singing  like  robins  in  our  glad  content 

That  April  day. 

O  golden  sunshine,  and  O  silver  raining! 
O  earnest  jesting,  and  O  sweet  complaining! 
Two    happy    hearts    stood    watching    daylight's 
waning 

That  April  day. 


TWO  NEW  YEAR'S  DAYS 

THE  Year  was  waiting  for  his  great  release, 

And  I,  who  loved  him,  stood  with  him  hand 

fast. 
Outside,  the  white,  still  world  was  all  at  peace, 

Only  the  pallid  moon  soft  shadows  cast 
Upon  the  snowy  space ;  while  here  and  there 

There  stood  at  intervals  a  tall  black  tree. 
It  was  an  ivory  temple,  white  and  fair, 

Within  whose  courts  were  shafts  of  ebony. 

"Good-bye  !     Good-bye !     We've  seen  life  in  its 

prime." 

"Ah !  friend,"  I  answered,  "thee  no  more  I  see !" 
102 


TWO   NEW   YEAR'S   DAYS 

"Not  so !    Not  so !  for,  though  men  call  me  Time, 

I  am  a  part  of  all  Eternity. 
The  years  beyond  the  flood  are  part  of  me, 

The  golden  years  which  far  away  are  set. 
I  was,  I  am,  and  I  shall  ever  be ; 

We  both  shall  meet,  and  neither  shall  forget." 

The  air  was  stirred  by  wings:  "Again,  good 
bye!" 
Ere   I   could   speak,  a  voice,  so  young  and 

glad, 
Cried  out :  "All's  well!  All's  well!    There  is  no 

need  to  sigh. 

I  am  the  good  New  Year ;  so  be  not  sad. 
I  come  with  both  hands  full,  with  sweet  delights ; 
My  feet  shall  shine  across  the  wheat  and  dew ; 
I  bring  warm,  sunny  days  and  moonlit  nights, 
And  dreams  for  all — sweet  dreams  that  shall 
come  true!" 

And  so  I  was  content;  for  all  through  life, 
When  some  loved  joy  a  long  "good-bye"  must 

tell, 
Then  some  young  Hope,  new-born,  from  grief 

or  strife, 

Springs  to  my  side  and  says :  "All's  well!  All's 
well! 

103 


A     NEW     YEAR     S     VISION 

The  Future  is  no  poorer  than  the  Past, 

And  God  is  where  he  was,  whate'er  men  say. 
Let  every  trouble  be  behind  thee  cast. 
Cheer  up!  good  heart;  this  is  Thy  New  Year's 
Day!" 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  VISION 

OUTSIDE,  the  Wind's  wet  wings  flapped  heavily, 
And  from  her  dripping  fingers  raindrops  fell ; 

But  I,  hushed  warm  in  sleepy  peace,  could  see 
Far  more  than  firelight's  fitful  shadows  tell. 

For  oft  in  slumber-lidded  visions  lies 

Strange  light  between  the  eyelids  and  the  eyes. 

And  lo!  a  Dial-plate,  as  wan  and  pale 
As  foam  upon  a  dim  and  tumbling  sea ; 

Or  as,  on  dusky  waves,  a  phantom  sail 

Gleams  in  the  moonlight  of  some  memory, 

A  Dial  with  two  hands  of  mighty  power 

Clasped  for  a  moment,  at  the  midnight  hour. 

Gasped,  and   unclasped — yet  in  that  moment's 

space 

The  scepter  passed — the  Old  Year,  tried  and 
good, 


THANKSGIVING 

Discrowned  and  kingdomless,  went  to  his  place 

Among  the  buried  years  beyond  the  flood : 
While   chiming  bells  and  sounds  of   feast  and 

mirth 
Welcomed  the  glad  New  Year  as  King  of  Earth. 


THANKSGIVING 

OUR  hay  is  saved,  our  wheat  is  reaped, 

Our  corn  is  gathered,  our  barns  are  heaped, 

Thanksgiving. 

Then  sweep  the  house,  make  plenty  of  cheer, 
And  we'll  call  our  loved  from  far  and  near; 
Son  and  daughter  and  grandchild  dear, 

Leave  nobody  out, 
Thanksgiving  comes  but  once  a  year, 

Leave  nobody  out. 

We've  had  good  health  through  the  working  days 
Both  in  the  fields  and  the  household  ways ; 

Thanksgiving. 

Call  every  Friend  from  around  the  hill, 
And  from  the  village  and  from  the  mill, 
105 


THANKSGIVING 

We'll  feast  them  all  with  a  right  good  will, 

Leave  nobody  out, 
For  a  grateful  heart  is  kindly  still, 

Leave  nobody  out. 

Leave  nobody  out,  we  may  gladly  spare 
The  Poor  their  portion  in  all  our  fare, 

Thanksgiving. 

For  Thanksgiving  brings   us   this   command- 
"You  have  reap'd  the  gift  of  all  the  land, 
When  the  purse  is  full  then  loose  the  band, 

Leave  nobody  out, 
Give  with  an  open  heart  and  hand, 

Leave  nobody  out." 

Leave  nobody  out,  no,  not  our  foe; 
We  must  forgive  him,  ere  we  can  know 

Thanksgiving. 

Forgive  the  wrong  and  the  care  and  fear, 
Then  turn  to  the  Hearts  so  true  and  near, 
And  God  will  give  us  a  blessing,  Dear : — 

Leave  nobody  out, 
Thanksgiving  comes  but  once  a  year, 

Leave  nobody  out. 


ST.  PATRICK'S  MARTYRS 

I  WONDER  what  the  mischief  was  in  her,  for  the 

mistress  was  niver  contrairy, 
But  this  same  is  just  what  she  said  to  me,  just 

as  sure  as  me  name  it  is  Mary: 
"Mary,"  says  she,  all  a-smiling  and  swate  like, 

"the     young     ladies    are     coming     from 

France, 
And  we'll  give  them  a  welcome  next  Monday, 

with  an  illegant  supper  and  dance." 

"Is  it  Monday  ye're  maning?"  says  I;  "ma'am, 

why,  thin  I'm  sorry  to  stand  in  yer  way, 
But  it's  little  of  work  I'll  do  Monday,  seeing  that 

Monday's  St.   Patrick's  Day; 
And  sure  it's  meself  that  promised  to  go  wid 

Cousin  Kitty  Malone's  brother  Dan, 
And  bad  luck  to  Mary  Magee,"  says  I,  "if  she 

disappoints  such  a  swate  young  man!" 

"Me  children  hev  been  away  four  years" — and 
she  spoke  in  a  very  unfeelin'  way — 
107 


ST.    PATRICK'S    MARTYRS 

"Ye  can  not  expect  I  shall  disappoint  them  either 

for  you  or  St.  Patrick's  Day: 
I    know   nothing   about    St.    Patrick,"     "That's 

true    for   ye,    ma'am,    more's    the   pity," 

says  I, 
"For  it's  niver  the  likes  of  ye  has  the  luck  to 

be  born  under  the  Irish  sky." 

Ye  see,  I  was  gitting  past  jokin' — and  she  sitting 

there,  so  asy  and  proud, 
And  me  thinking  of  the  Third  Avenue,  and  the 

procession  and  music  and   crowd; 
And  it  crassed  me  mind  that  minit  consarning 

Thady  Mulligan's  supper  and  dance; 
Says  I,  "It's  not  Mary  Magee,  ma'am,  that  can 

stay  for  the  ladies  coming  from  France." 

"Mary,"  says  she,  "two  afternoons  each  week — 

ivery  Wednesday  and  ivery  Monday — 
Ye've  always  had,  besides  yer  early  Mass,  and 

yer  Vispers  ivery  other  Sunday, 
And  yer  friends  hev  visited  at  me  house,  two  or 

three  of  them  ivery  night." 
"Indade,.  thin,"  says  I,  "that  was  nothin'  at  all 

but  ivery  dacent  girl's  right!" 
108 


ST.     PATRICK     S     MARTYRS 

"Very  well,  thin,"  says  she,  "ye  can  lave  the 

house,  and  be  sure  to  take  wid  ye  yer 

'right'; 
And  if  Michael  and  Norah  think  just  as  ye  do,  ye 

can  all  of  ye  lave  to-night." 
So  just  for  St.   Patrick's  glory  we  wint;  and, 

as  sure  as  Mary  Magee  is  me  name, 
It's  a  house  full  of  nagurs  she's  got  now,  which 

the  same  is  a  sin  and  a  shame. 

"Bad  luck  to  them  all !     A  poor  body,  I  think, 

had  need  of  a  comfterble  glass; 
It's  a  miserable  time  in  Ameriky  for  a  dacent 

Irish-born  lass. 
If   she   sarves  the  saints,  and   is  kind  to  her 

friends,   then   she   loses   her   home   and 

her  pay, 
And  there's  thousands  of  innocent  martyrs  like 

me  on  ivery  St.  Patrick's  Day." 


AUTUMN  TIME 

I  SING  the  days  of  Autumn  Time, 
A  misty  dawn,  an  amber  noon, 
A  purple  eve,  a  harvest  moon, 
A  perfect  day,  in  Autumn  time. 

The  calm  contented  Autumn  Time, 
The  restful  fields,  the  gathered  wheat, 
The  tasseled  corn,  the  busy  feet 
Of  reapers,  in  the  Autumn  time. 

The  splendid  fruits  of  Autumn  Time, 
The  peaches,  amber,  gold  and  red ; 
The  grapes,  on  dews  and  sunshines  fed, 
The  apple  trees  of  Autumn  Time. 

The  faithful  flowers  of  Autumn  Time, 
The  dahlia  and  the  marigold, 
The  starry  aster,  bright  and  bold, 
The  bronzing  ferns  of  Autumn  Time. 

The  pensive  days  of  Autumn  Time, 
The  sleepy  peace  o'er  hill  and  dell, 
no 


AUTUMN     TIME 

The  falling  leaves,  the  birds'  farewell, 
The  dropping  nuts  of  Autumn  Time. 

The  hopeful  days  of  Autumn  Time 
That  see  beyond  the  Winter's  rain; 
The  happy  fields  grow  green  again, 
Grow  gold,  again,  for  Autumn  Time. 

I  sing  our  Life's  rich  Autumn  Time, 
The  harvest  of  our  toil  and  tears; 
The  fields  where  we  have  wrought  for  years 
Now  golden  in  their  Autumn  Time. 

Life's  quiet  peaceful  Autumn  Time 
Its  days  with  love  and  friendship  blessed; 
No  anxious  cares,  the  heart  at  rest; 
Oh,  Life  is  sweet  at  Autumn  time. 

Life's  grand  rejoicing  Autumn  Time, 
Its  finer  faith,  its  broader  thought, 
Its  work,  to  noble  purpose  brought ; 
Oh,  Life  is  crowned  in  Autumn  Time. 

Life's  happy  hopeful  Autumn  Time, 
For  years  to  it  can  only  bring 
The  change  of  Heaven's  Eternal  Spring — 
Heaven's  Spring,  for  Earth's  ripe  Autumn  Time, 
in 


AT  THE  STROKE  OF  MIDNIGHT 

MY  Soul,  watching  and  musing,  saw  this  sight : 

Two  mighty  Angels,  swift  and  full  of  power, 
Meet  and  clasp  hands,  yet  stay  not  in  their  flight 

Cleaving  the  zenith  at  the  midnight  hour. 
Clasp  and  unclasp  swift  as  a  thought  may  be 

One  upward  and  the  other  downward  went, 
One  with  a  countenance  serenely  free, 

The  other,  thoughtful  as  on  service  sent. 

But  sure  and  swift  as  holy  prayers  arise 

The  Angel  of  the  Past  Year  sought  God's  face  ; 
He  knew  the  constellations,  and  with  eyes 

And  heart  uplifted,  passed  the  starry  space; 
And  swift  and  bright  as  sunshine  from  the  skies 

Came  the  strong  Angel  of  the  Earth's  New 

Year 
And  while  he  stood  with  calm  and  watchful  eyes 

The  last  sharp  stroke  of  midnight  smote  my 
ear. 


112 


TWO  DOORS  * 

WHISPER  "Farewell!"  at  midnight 
To  the  old  year,  whisper  low 

Then  open  the  Western  door — 
Open,  and  let  him  go. 

The  work  of  the  hands  not  good, 
The  will  of  the  wavering  mind, 

The  thoughts  of  the  heart  not  pure, 
The  words  of  the  lips  not  kind. 

Faith  that  is  broken  or  lost, 
Hopes  that  are  fading  and  dim, 

Love  that  is  selfish  and  vain — 
These,  let  him  carry  with  him. 

Whisper  farewell  to  your  doubts, 
To  follies  and  faults  that  you  know, 


*  In  the  dales  of  Westmoreland,  it  is  customary  to 
open  the  West  door  and  let  the  Old  Year  out,  and  the 
East  door,  to  let  the  New  Year  in. 


TWO     DOORS 

Then  open  the  Western  door 

With  the  Old  Year,  and  let  them  go. 

Turn  to  the  sunrising  next 
When  shadows  are  growing  thin, 

Set  open  the  Eastern  door 
And  welcome  the  New  Year  in. 

Welcome  the  order  brave 

"More  faithfully  do  your  part," 

Welcome  the  brighter  hope, 
Welcome  the  kinder  heart. 

Welcome  the  daily  work, 
Welcome  the  household  care, 

Clasp  hands  with  the  Household  Love, 
Lift  hands  in  the  Household  prayer. 

Forgotten  be  all  mistakes 

And  over  again  begin, 
When  you  open  the  Eastern  door 

To  welcome  the  New  Year  in. 


AN  APRIL  DAY 

A  LITTLE  brown  bird  on  a  hawthorn-tree 

Sat  singing  beside  his  nest, 
And  a  maid  came  tripping  over  the  lea 
And  sweet  was  the  maid  to  hear,  and  see 

With  violets  at  her  breast. 
And  thus  she  sang  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh: 

"The  rains  fall  swift  and  white, 

The  sun  shines  warm  and  bright 
And  the  thoughts  of  love  are  an  April  sky. 

"For  the  April  skies  are  but  sun  and  rain 

And  the  woodland  ways  are  cool, 
And  love  is  a  little  pleasure  and  pain 
And  the  maiden  who  thinks  it  will  remain 

Is  only  an  April-fool." 
Then  she  kissed  her  flowers  with  smile  and  sigh 

"O  violets  blue,  you  know 

That  love  will  come  and  go 
And  the  heaven  of  love  is  an  April  sky." 
"5 


AN     APRIL     DAY 

The  little  brown  bird  on  the  hawthorn-tree 

Stood  upon  tiptoe  to  sing : 
Where'er  a  maid  or  a  bird  may  be 
On  the  fresh  green  earth  or  the  deep  blue  sea, 

O  love  is  the  sweetest  thing. 
The  sweetest  thing  in  a  loyal  breast 

Let  the  sunshine  come  and  go 

That  a  bird  or  maid  can  know 
The  sweetest  thing  is  a  little  brown  nest. 

And   the   maiden   laughed   and   the   sun   shone 
bright 

And  blue  were  the  April  skies. 
"Ah,  bird,"  she  said,  "In  a  maiden's  sight 
Whatever  love  does,  is  exactly  right 

And  the  April-fools  are  wise; 
For  though  the  rain  raineth  every  day 

Yet  the  drifting  clouds  may  go 

And  the  budding  roses  blow  ; 
Weeping  April  may  find  a  smiling  May." 


DECORATION  DAY 

IN  the  pale  land  where  dreams  and  memory  dwell 

I   passed  that   separating  wall,   last  night, 
Which  parts  thin  ghosts   from  shadow-casting 

men 

And  in  its  weird  gray  melancholy  light 
I  saw  the  cloudlike  limbs  of  mighty  shades 

That  twenty  years  ago  with  Victory  trod ; 
Their     inspired    eyes,     stern     faces,    gleaming 

swords, 

Their  shadowy  cohorts,  marching  red,  wet- 
shod. 

And  though  my  ear  with  silence  ached,  I  heard 

A  shuddering  wail  over  the  land  and  sea, 
The  labor-cry  of  Freedom  in  her  hour 

When  fire  and  slaughter  brought  forth  Lib 
erty. 
Then  woke  to  sunshine  and  the  festal  air 

Of  a  great  city  making  holiday, 
To  strew  with  flowers  the  lonely  yards  where  lie 

The  conquering  Blue,  the  sad  ill-fated  Gray. 
117 


FOR  SAINT  PATRICK'S  DAY 

O  GOOD  St.  Patrick,  in  those  younger  years 
Red  with  the  tide  of  war,  and  storm  of  spears, 
And  in  the  later,  full  of  wrong  and  shame, 
No  son  of  thine  has  e'er  forgot  thy  name. 
But  this  year,  of  all  years,  shall  crown  thy  story 
With  splendid  fame,  and  gifts  of  loving  glory. 

Exile  and  distance  vanish !     Now  at  last 
We  all  are  one,  no  matter  what  the  past. 
Orange  or  green  or  white  or  blue  to-day 
Blend  like  the  rainbow  in  one  glorious  ray. 
And,  feeding  sobbing  babes  and  wailing  mothers, 
We  own  at  last:  All  Irishmen  are  brothers. 

We  have  forgot  what  colors  have  been  worn, 
We   ask   not   now,   "In   what   creed  were  you 

born?" 

Break  bread  with  us ;  take  half  our  gold ;  we  dare 
Not  kneel  in  prayer,  till  you  our  plenty  share. 
Our  very  children  eat  with  tears  and  sighing 
Thinking  of  hungry  babes  in  poor  Ireland  dying. 
118 


FOR   ST.   PATRICK'S   DAY 

No  need  this  year,  with  band  and  banners  gay 
To  show  the  world  when  dawns  "Old  Ireland's 

day;" 

Upon  St.  Patrick's  morn,  it  shall  be  told 
The  splendid  measure  of  the  rich  man's  gold. 
The  children's  pennies  and  the  workman's  token, 
The  very  widow's  mite,  divided,  broken. 

It  shall  be  told,  and  on  St.  Patrick's  day 
All  Irishmen  with  smiles  and  tears  shall  say 
"We're  one  in  heart;  one  green  isle  holds  in 

guard 

Our  fathers'  dust;  in  many  a  still  churchyard. 
And  though  we  roam,  Old  Ireland  is  our  Mother 
And  every  Irishman  in  grief,  our  brother." 

It  shall  be  told,  and  men  of  every  race 
Shall  westward  turn,  in  Charity's  sweet  grace 
And  say,  "We  are  all  one."     It  shall  be  told 
To  Erin's  children,   starving,  naked,  cold. 
And  they  shall  say,  amid  their  pain  and  labor, 
"Old  Ireland's  got  the  whole  world  for  a  neigh 
bor!" 


THE  FISHERMAN'S  PRAYER 

i 

THE  boats  rocked  idly  on  the  bay, 
The  nets  hung  straight  within  the  deep, 
On  the  hard  deck  the  Fishers  lay, 
Lost  in  a  deep  and  dreamless  sleep. 
(Why  should  they  care,  and  watch  and  wake, 
Nets  of  the  sleeping  fishers  "take"?) 
Only  the  Sea  the  silence  broke, 
Until  the  Master  Fisher  spoke : — 

ii 

O  Christ,  Thou  must  have  loved  the  Sea! 
Its  waves  held  firm  they  steady  feet, 
Would  Thou  not  talk  of  boats  and  nets, 
If  Thou  some  fishermen  should  meet? 
Yes,  Thou  would  speak  of  boats  and  nets, 
Though  walking  on  the  golden  street. 

in 

And  if,  O  Christ,  Thou  met  some  day 
The  fishermen  from  Galilee, 

1 20 


THE   FISHERMAN 'S  PRAYER 

Would  Thou  not  speed  the  hours  away, 
Recalling  Life  upon  their  Sea? 
And  sure  their  hearts  would  burn  and  thrill, 
Remembering  Thy  "Peace!     Be  Still!" 

IV 

The  Crystal  Sea  could  not  replace 
The  old  Earth  Sea,  so  wild  and  gray; 
The  strain,  the  struggle,  and  the  race 
For  "daily  bread,"  from  day  to  day. 
O   Christ!     We   fishermen   implore, 
Say  not,  "the  sea  shall  be  no  more!" 

v 

Its  tides  have  seen  Thy  godlike  face 
Look  down  into  its  hidden,  graves; 
Have  felt  Thy  feet  in  solemn  pace, 
Pass  through  the  valleys  of  its  waves. 
Fisher  of  Galilee,  we  pray, 
"Let  not  the  Earth  Sea  pass  away !" 


WITH  THE  TIDE 

WAVE  by  wave  o'er  the  sandy  bar, 

Up  to  the  coast  lights,  glimmering  wan, 
Out  of  the  darkness,  deep  and  far, 

Slowly  the  tide  came  creeping  on. 
Through  the  clamor  of  billowy  strife 

Another  voice  went  wailing  thin : 
The  first  faint  cry  of  a  new-born  life 

Broke  on  the  night — and  the  tide  was  in. 

Wave  by  wave  o'er  the  sandy  bar, 
Back  again  from  the  sleeping  town, 

Back  to  the  darkness,  deep  and  far, 

Slowly  the  tide  went  dropping  down. 

Silence  lay  on  the  chamber  of  death; 
Silence  lay  on  the  land  about: 

The  last  low  flutter  of  weary  breath 

Fell  on  the  night — and  the  tide  was  out. 


WHEN  THE  TIDE  GOES  OUT 

FULL  white  moon  upon  a  waste  of  ocean, 
High  full  tide  upon  the  sandy  shore; 
In  the  fisher's  cot,  without  a  motion, 
Waiteth   he  that  never  shall  sail  more — 
Waiteth  he,  and  one  sad  comrade,  sighing, 
Speaking  lowly,  says,  "Without  a  doubt 
He  will  rest  soon:   Some  One  calls  the  dying 
When  the  tide  goes  out." 

Some  One  calls  the  tide,  when  in  its  flowing 
It  hath  touched  the  limits  of  its  bound; 
Some  great  Voice;  and  all  the  billows,  knowing 
What  omnipotence  is  in  that  sound, 
Hasten  back  to  ocean,  none  delaying 
For  man's  profit,  pleasuring,  or  doubt — 
Backward  to  their  source,  not  one  wave  straying ; 
And  the  tide  is  out. 

Some  One  calls  the  soul  o'er  life's  dark  ocean, 
When  its  tide  breaks  high  upon  the  land, 
123 


A     COMMISSION 

And  it  listens  with  such  glad  emotion 
As  the  "called"  alone  can  understand — 
Listens,  hastens  to  its  source  of  being, 
Leaves  the  sands  of  Time  without  a  doubt, 
While  we  sadly  wait,  as  yet  but  seeing 
That  the  tide  is  out. 


"GOOD-BYE,  Sailor,  with  heart  and  hand ; 
If,  as  you  sail  from  land  to  land, 

You  should  happen  to  see 
The  girl  of  whom  I've  read  and  heard, 
Whose  voice  is  like  a  singing  bird, 
And  falls  in  many  a  pleasant  word, 

Tell  her  my  heart  is  free. 

"If  in  her  home  she's  good  and  sweet, 
Tripping  about  with  busy  feet, 

I  am  at  her  command; 
If  she's  obedient,  kind  and  fair, 
With  beaming  eyes  and  sunny  hair, 
And  heart  untouched  by  sinful  care, 
Offer  my  heart  and  hand." 
124 


I    AM    THE    LAD    IN    BLUE    AND    WHITE 

"Well,  Will,  you  long  have  been  my  friend, 
And,  as  I  like  you,  I  intend 

You  shall  be,  all  my  life; 
But  I  am  neither  deaf  nor  blind, 
And,  if  this  perfect  girl  I  find, 
I  tell  you  plainly  I'm  inclined 

To  make  her  my  own  wife." 


I  AM  the  lad  in  the  blue  and  white — 

Sing  hey !  the  merry  sailor  boy. 
My  head  is  steady,  my  eyes  are  bright, 
My  hand  is  ready,  my  step  is  light, 
My  brave  little  heart,  all  right,  all  right — 

Sing  ho!  the  merry  sailor  boy. 

I  am  the  lad  in  the  blue  and  white — 

Sing  hey!  the  merry  sailor  boy. 

I  sit  in  the  shrouds  when  the  soft  winds  blow> 
The  light  waves  rock  me  to  and  fro; 
I  run  up  aloft  or  down  below — 

Sing  ho!  the  merry  sailor  boy. 
125 


I    AM    THE    LAD    IN    BLUE    AND    WHITE 

I  am  the  lad  in  the  blue  and  white — 

Sing  ho !  the  merry  sailor  boy. 
When  the  skies  are  blue  and  the  sea  is  calm, 
The  air  is  full  of  spice  and  balm, 
And  the  shore  is  set  with  shadowy  palm, 
Oh,  glad  is  the  merry  sailor  boy ! 

"What  will  you  do  when  the  great  winds  blow? 

What  will  you  do,  my  sailor  boy?" — 
When  great  winds  blow,  and  are  icy  cold, 
Never  you  fear,  for  my  heart  is  bold : 
I'll  watch  my  captain,  do  what  I'm  told — 

Sing  ho!  the  ready  sailor  boy. 

"If  a  foe  should  come — in  such  a  plight, 

What  would  do,  brave  sailor  boy?" — 
Run  up  the  "Stars  and  Stripes"  in  his  sight, 
Stand  by  my  captain,  wrong  or  right, 
And  give  the  foe  an  up-and-down  fight — 
Sing  ho!  the  gallant  sailor  boy. 

I  am  the  lad  in  the  blue  and  white — 

Sing  hey!  the  merry  sailor  boy. 
I  carry  my  country's  flag  and  name ; 
I  never  will  do  her  wrong  or  shame ; 
I'll  fight  her  battles  and  share  her  fame — 

Sing  ho !  the  gallant  sailor  boy. 
126 


PHANTOM  SHIPS 

BETWEEN  my  body  and  my  soul  there  came  one 

night 

A  sudden  flash  and  flow — a  fiery  sense 
That  in  my  vision  lay  a  keener  sight ; 
And  in  my  heart  the  pulse  of  prescience 
And  power  was  mine,  I  knew  not  how  or  whence, 
To  wander,  sleep  divided  by  the  sea 
One  likeness  weary,  mortal  bound  and  dense ; 
The  other  I  all  clear  and  strong  and  free. 

In  the  dim  light,  I  seemed  a  wandering  dream 
Upon  the  white  washed  sands  of  the  sea-shore, 
Watching  the  dusky  waves,  whereon  was  gleam 
Of  pale-sailed  ships,  that  ever  from  me  bore 
Something   that    vexed   my    heart    and    left    it 

sore; 

I  knew  not  what,  so  turned  me  to  the  form 
So  like  my  own,  whose  calm  face  stilly  wore 
The  smile  of  one  that  has  outlooked  the  storm. 
127 


PHANTOM     SHIPS 

"Dear  Heart,"  said  I,  "whence  came  the  ships 

and  where 
Will  they  find  rest?"    The  clear  eyes  clove  the 

space 

And  I  through  them  could  see  a  bark  most  fair 
With  light  of  days  that  were  about  the  place. 
Sweet  childish  days,  all  flushed  with  floral  grace, 
Clear  air  and  songs  that  once  were  understood, 
And  everywhere  a  guileless  happy  face 
At  one  with  all  things  that  were  pure  and  good. 

I  knew  my  childhood's  bark,  and  smiled  to  see 
How  it  was  gently  rocked  on  great  sweet  waves, 
Yet  turned  to  watch  the  golden  Argosy 
That  held  the  joy,  which  most  of  all  life  craves — 
The  immeasurable  love  that  laps  and  laves 
And  mixes  mortal  with  immortal  breath; 
Outlooks    all    earthly    suns,    and    smiles    o'er 

graves — 
Immortal  Love,  that  n'er  was  thrall  of  Death. 

But  suddenly  from  out  the  mist  there  came 
A  bark  that  held  a  swift  resistless  way, 
Nor  wave,  nor  tempest,  nor  the  lightning's  flame, 
Nor  man,  nor  element  had  power  to  stay 
128 


PHANTOM     SHIPS 

Its  onward  course — more  splendid  day  by  day. 
For  Fortune  sailed  that  bark — the  Goddess  great 
Whose  smiles  make  best  of  men  forget  to  pray, 
False  fickle  smiles  that  always  come  too  late. 

And  Fame,  with  Babel  of  a  motley  throng, 
And  power,  tossed  on  a  dim  unquiet  sea, 
And  Pleasure,  singing  as  she  drove  along, 
And  in  soft  amber  lights  still  Phantasy, 
With  many  a  spectral  bark,  saluted  me. 
Wherein  my  soul  had  share  and  I  could  claim 
The  rose,  the  love,  the  gold  and  ivory, 
The  spice,  the  scent  and  song,  the  spoil  and  fame. 

And  as  I  watched,  lo !  on  the  lonely  deep 
Each  little  bark  went  down ;  and  I  stood  there 
A  shipwrecked  soul,  and  did  not  think  to  weep 
For  I  was  of  that  other  self  aware. 
"Now  where  shall  I  find  rest  ?     What  craft  will 

bear 

What  great  deliverer  will  come  to  free? 
What  Hope  the  lonely  road  with  me  will  share 
Across  this  dark  illimitable  sea?" 

"Behold!"    And  in  the  East  a  golden  shore 
I  had  not  seen,  but  which  I  knew  at  sight, 
129 


THE     SKIPPER     S     LOVE 

And  perfumed  winds,  swift  o'er  the  white  waves 

bore 

A  little  boat  down  one  straight  ray  of  light. 
And  in  the  boat,  Hope's  image  shining  bright, 
And  on  the  shore,  Love  stretching  out  his  hands. 
A  boat,  most  like  a  grave,  so  still  and  white, 
The  only  one  that  seeks  Immortal  Lands. 


THE  SKIPPER'S  LOVE;  OR,  THE  TIDE 
WILL  TURN 

THE  Skipper  stood  on  the  windy  pier; 

"O  Mate,"  he  said,  "set  every  sail, 
For  love  is  sweet,  if  true  and  dear, 

But  bitter  is  love,  if  love  must  fail." 
"No  hurry,    Skipper,  to  put  to  sea, 

The  wind  is  foul  and  the  water  low, 
But  the  tide  will  turn,  if  you  wait  a  wee, 

And  you'll  get  'Yes'  where  you  got  'No.' " 

The  Skipper  turned  again  with  a  smile 
And  he  found  his  love  in  a  better  mood, 

For  she  had  had  time  to  think  the  while 
"I  shall  find  ten  worse,  for  one  as  good." 
130 


THE     SKIPPER     S     LOVE 

So  the  tide  had  turned  and  he  got  "Yea." 
The  sails  were  rilled  and  the  wind  was  fair. 

Don't  limit  the  pleasant  words,  I  pray, 
They  are  for  every  one,  every  where. 

The  tide  will  turn  if  you  wait  a  wee, 

And  good's  not  lost,  if  but  defer'd ; 
Supposing  your  plans  have  gone  a-gley 

Don't  flee  away  like  a  frightened  bird. 
So  that  you've  asked  a  favor  in  vain, 

To-morrow  may  be  a  better  day, 
The  tide  of  fortune  will  turn  again, 

And  you'll  get  "Yes"  where  you  got  "Nay." 

The  tide  will  turn  if  the  thing  you  mind 

Is  worth  the  waiting  and  worth  the  cost; 
If  you  seek  and  seek  until  you  find, 

Then  your  labor  will  never  be  lost. 
For  waiting  is  often  working,  you  see, 

And  though  the  water  may  now  be  low 
The  tfde  will  turn  if  you  bide  a  wee 

And  you'll  get  "Yes"  where  you  got  "No." 


GOOD  landsmen,  whatsoe'er  your  rank  or  station, 

Sing  hey.  the  merry  sailor  and  his  ship  I— 
The  arm  of  trade,  the  bulwark  of  the  nation, 
The  merry  tars  whose  anchors  are  atrip — 
The  merry  tars  whose  anchors  are  atrip ; 
The  busy  tars  who  man  the  gallant  ship; 
The  cheery  toilers  of  the  stormy  sea — 
Sing  hey  for  sailors,  wheresoe'er  they  be! 

"    ''  > : '•'.*'     '•'•'[.  X     •*.-';•     /.  * 

Kind  ladies  all,  with ..  sympathetic  motion, 

Sing  hey  the  sailor  lover  and  his  lass ! 
He  loves  with  love  as  deep  as  is  the  ocean, 
But  far  away  from  love  his  life  must  pass. 
The  loving  tar,  who  ne'er  forgets  his  lass; 
The  faithful  tar,  though  months  and  years 

may  pass ; 
The  sailor  true  to  one  through  change  and 

strife — 

Sing  hey  the  loving  sailor  and  his  wife ! 
132 


THE     JOLLY     TAR 

Gay  citizens  on  land  and  free  from  danger, 

Sing  hey  the  gallant  tar  upon  the  sea! 
Tis  for  your  wealth  and  comfort  he's  a  ranger — 
Sing  hey  the  sailor  and  the  stormy  sea ! — 
The  daring  sailor  on  its  stormy  waves ; 
The  stormy  ocean  full  of  sailors'  graves ; 
The  mighty  highway  to  the  lands  afar — 
Sing  hey  the  ocean  and  the  bold,  brave  tar! 

Landsmen  and  ladies  all,  with  proud  emotion, 

Sing  hey  the  sailor  and  his  starry  flag! — 
The  starry  flag  that  shines  o'er  every  ocean, 
That    foeman's    hand   shall    never   downward 

drag ! — 

The  flag  of  freedom,  both  in  peace  and  strife 
The  proudest  emblem  of  the  sailor's  life ; 
The  glorious  flag,  upon  the  topmast  high, 
To  which  the  dying  sailor  lifts  his  eye! 
Landsmen  and  ladies  all,  where'er  you  be, 
Sing  hey  the  gallant  sailor  and  the  sea ! 


THE  TWO  SHIPS 

COME  hither  and  talk  with  me,  Friend. 
Do  you  say  you  are  weary  of  strife? 
Of  the  toil  that  has  never  an  end, 
Of  the  hurry  and  worry  of  life? 
Of  the  tumult  and  constant  unrest, 
Of  the  watch  that  you  ceaselessly  keep? 
Would  you  lie  in  some  far-away  nest, 

In  the  dreamless  oblivion  of  sleep? 

f 

Come  walk  with  me  on  to  the  pier, 
'Mid  the  crowd  that  are  hurrying  there ; 
They  have  gathered  from  far  and  from  near 
And  each  have  their  purpose  or  care. 
We  will  go  to  the  end  of  the  slip, 
Where  our  vision  is  ample  and  free, 
And  watch  for  your  tempest-toss'd  ship 
Coming  in  from  the  Indian  Sea. 

She  hath  many  a  strain  and  a  stain, 
She's  battered  and  beaten  and  gray, 
134 


THE     TWO     SHIPS 

With  the  wash  of  the  waves  and  the  rain, 

With  the  struggle  by  night  and  by  day. 

No  harbor  for  succor,  or  aid, 

Could  she  find  on  the  lonely,  wide  sea; 

No  promise  of  rest  till  she  made 

The  port  where  her  Captain  would  be. 

But  at  last  from  the  tempest-toss'd  deck, 
Her  sailors  the  harbor  behold; 
And  safe  from  all  danger  of  wreck, 
Her  treasure  of  life  and  of  gold. 
Now,  do  you  remember  the  pity, 
The  shameful  regret  that  we  felt, 
When  we  saw  in  a  far-away  city, 
The  Yacht  of  the  Marquis  Von  Pelt? 

It  was  moor'd  in  a  beautiful  bay, 
And  lazily  rocked  on  its  tide; 
And  there  it  was  left  to  decay 
An  idle  appendage  to  pride. 
We  looked  at  the  rot  and  the  rust, 
Making  ruin  in  every  part; 
At  the  woodwork  all  going  to  dust, 
With  the  worms  that  were  eating  its  heart. 
135 


THE     TWO     SHIPS 

Oh,  Friend  of  my  Heart,  would  you  hide 

Away  from  the  struggle  and  strife? 

And  lazily  rock  on  the  tide 

Of  some  out-of-way  harbor  of  life? 

Oblivious  of  honor  or  blame, 

And  gathering  the  rot  and  the  rust, 

Of  days  without  duty  or  aim, 

And  heart  slowly  turning  to  dust  ? 

No,  no,  and  a  thousand  times,  no ; 

Far  better  to  be  on  the  deep, 

Where  the  winds  from  all  quarters  may  blow, 

And  the  watch  is  to  ceaselessly  keep. 

Far  better  the  storm-beaten  ship, 

Fighting  onward  day  after  day, 

Than  the  yacht  safely  moor'd  at  the  slip, 

And  silently  rotting  away. 


"KISS  AND  MAK'  IT  UP  AGAIN" 

BAIRNS,  nae  angry  words  be  saying, 
You'll  hae  fights  enough  ere  lang; 
Dinna,  when  you  should  be  playing, 
Tak'   to   threeping   right   and   wrang, 
Hyting  words .  are   always   vain, 
Kiss  and  mak'  it  up  again. 

Lads  and  lasses,  love  each  other, 
Bairnhood's  love  is  hard  to  break; 
You  have  had  one  tender  mother, 
Think  o'  that — and  for  her  sake 
If  things  go  a  bit  ajee, 
Say,  "We're  brothers,  let's  agree." 

Ilka  ane  must  hae  their  notion, 
All  can't  think  alike,  that's  plain. 
Haud  yer  ain — but  wi'  this  caution — 
Kiss  and  mak'  it  up  again, 
You've  sat  on  one  mother's  knee, 
For  her  sake,  then — Bairns  agree. 
137 


"KISS  AND  MAK'  IT  UP  AGAIN" 

Far  and  wide  nae  doubt  you'll  scatter, 
Often  gie  each  other  pain, 
Love,  or  gold,  whate'er's  the  matter, 
— Kiss  and  mak'  it  up  again. 
Stranger  folk  may  disagree — 
You've  knelt  round  one  mother's  knee. 

Said  the  same  sweet  prayer  together, 
Felt  the  same  kind  father's  rule, 
Played  among  the  snow  and  heather, 
Had  one  slate  and  book  at  school, 
In  the  same  kirk  bent  the  knee ; 
Think  o'  these  things — and  agree. 

And  if  ever  Pride  or  Passion 
Come  between  you — this  is  plain, 
You  must  try  your  bairnhood's  fashion, 
Kiss  and  mak'  it  up  again. 
Young  or  old,  where'er  you  be 
Say,  "We're  brothers — let's  agree." 


"LASSES,  TAK'  TENT" 

I  WAD  like  to  speak  to  the  lasses,  without  ony 

fashous  formality, 
Anent  the  temptations  an'  perils  of  a  vera  dis- 

crim'nous  locality — 
I,  Mistress  Janet  Dalrymple,  wha  kens  weel  what 

it  is  to  be  thrifty, 
An    auld- far  rant,    canty    wee    body,    that    has 

counted  her  years  ayont  fifty. 

Yesterday  I   just  sauntered  up  Broadway,  for 

the  day  was  springlike  an'  sunny : 
Thinks  I,  I'll  e'en  look  at  the  ferlies,  there's  nae 

fear  o'  me  pairting  wi'  money; 
But  I  aye  had  a  fancy  for  siller,  an'  I'm  no  be- 

yont  looking  at  faces, 
An'  I  like  baith  pictures  an'  china,  though  I'm 

maistly  delighted  wi'  laces. 

But  I  hadna  a  thocht  o'  buying,  for  there  wasna 
a  thing  that  I  needed ; 

I  just  glanced  at  the  satins  an'  silks,  an'  the  bon 
nets  a'  feathered  an'  beaded ; 
139 


"LASSES,   TAK     TENT 

It's  ne'er  a  bawbee  o'  my  money,  I  said — when, 

just  as  the  words  left  my  lips, 
I  was  a'  in  a  sweer  an'  a  langing,  wi'  the  flowers 

at  my  finger-tips. 

The  bonnie  bit  lilies  an'   roses!   I   couldna,   I 

couldna  but  choose  them, 
An'  the  great  purple  pansies  an'  daisies,  it  wasna 

i'  me  to  refuse  them; 
So  out  o'  my  pouch  cam  my  purse,  an'  without 

clishmaclaver  and  niffer, 
I  paid  a'  the  price  that  was  asked  me:  just  for 

ance,  I  said,  what  is  the  differ? 

I  had  broken  a  ten-dollar  bill,  but  of  course  I 
thocht  that  was  the  ending; 

You  never  can  tell,  my  dear  lasses,  on  what  lit 
tle  things  great  ones  are  pending. 

The  charm  o'  the  roses  was  on  me,  an'  my  dress 
it  grew  duller  an'  duller, 

Sae  the  spring  fashions  easily  caught  me  wi'  their 
freshness,  and  lightness,  an'  color. 

I  wadna  hae  thocht  nor  believed  it,  but  as  sure  as 
I'm  living  the  day, 

Two  hun'red  gold  dollars  it  cost  me,  that  saun 
ter  up  bonnie  Broadway; 
140 


MAGGIE     MACLEAN 

Sae,  lasses,  tak'  tent,  an'  keep  clear  o't ;  ae  woman 

is  just  like  anither, 
An'  we're  nane  o'  us  much  better  guided  than 

the  first  o'  our  race,  an'  our  mither. 


MAGGIE  MACLEAN 

i 
"On,  Maggie  Maclean,  my  bonnie  bird, 

Just  marry  the  Laird  and  siller; 
And  never  go  fling  yoursel'  awa' 

On  Charlie,  the  dusty  miller. 
Marry  the  Laird,  you'll  never  repent ; 

He's  weel-to-do  and  he's  thrifty; 
A  good  man's  aye  at  his  very  best 

When  a  few  years  after  fifty." 

ii 

But  Maggie,  tossing  her  golden  curls, 

Sang  cheery  as  ony  throstle, 
"I  wouldn't  gie  Charlie's  lightest  word 

For  the  Laird  o'  Tor  and  Tossel. 
I'll  marry  the  lad  that  I  love  best, 

And  that  is  Charlie,  the  miller; 
I'll  marry  for  love,  marry  for  love — 

'Tis  easy  to  work  for  siller." 
141 


MAGGIE     MACLEAN 
III 

"You'd  own  the  sheep  and  the  milking  kye, 

The  wheat,  the  oats,  the  barley." 
"I'd  rather  carry  the  milking  pail 

Through  the  dewy  grass  wi'  Charlie. 
I  can  bind  the  wheat  and  toss  the  hay, 

And  crack  wi'  the  handsome  miller; 
Lads  and  lasses  should  marry  for  love, 

And  work  for  their  bit  o'  siller." 

IV 

"The  Laird  will  buy  you  satins  and  silks, 

And  ribbons  baith  white  and  rosy ;" 
"My  tartan  skirt  is  bonnier  far, 

And  my. little  linsey  josey. 
Wi'  bright  blue  ribbons  I  snood  my  hair 

When  I  go  to  meet  the  miller, 
And  he  and  I  will  marry  for  love, 

And  work  for  our  bit  o'  siller. 


"I  never  would  barter  Love  for  gold, 
And  should  I  deceive  the  miller, 

I'd  just  be  buying  a  broken  heart 
Wi'  the  Laird  o'  Tossel's  siller. 
142 


CATOS     SONG 


I'd  just  be  sinnin'  against  three  folk, 
The  Laird,  mysel',  and  the  miller ; 

Sae  Charlie  and  I  will  marry  for  love, 
And  work  for  our  bit  o'  siller." 


CATO'S  SONG 

"CATO,  have  you  quite  forgotten 
How  you  used  among  the  cotton 
Still  to  sing  some  pleasant  strain?" 
"Laws,  miss,  I  can  sing  again." 
And  the  clear  voice  clearer  rang, 
As  he  swung  his  hoe  and  sang: 

"Ef  you  wants  de  purest  water, 

Jist  go  up  de  mountain-side, 
Whar  de  riber  start  his  running 

Down  to  catch  de  great  sea  tide. 
Ef  you  want  de  reddest  roses, 

You  will  find  dem  nodding  high, 
Whar  dem  catch  de  blessed  dew-drops, 

Whar  dem  see  de  morning  sky. 

"Would  you  eat  dem  sweetest  peaches, 
Juicy,  red,  or  yellow  bright, 


CATO'S     SONG 

Den  you  hab  to  climb  up  fur  dem 
Whar  dey  grow  right  in  de  light. 

Ef  you  seek  true  friend  or  lober, 
Upward  too  de  road  you  take : 

Hearts  should  neber  trabel  downward, 
Else  dey  mighty  apt  to  break. 

"Ef  you  look  fur  fame  or  glory, 

You  must  climb  up  wid  a  will ; 
Fur  'tis  jist  de  same  old  story — 

Up,  and  up,  and  upward  still. 
We  am  born  down  in  de  valley, 

But  if  heart  and  feet  don't  tire, 
We  can  still  be  going  upward, 

Upward,  higher,  higher,  higher. 

"Higher!  higher!  higher!  higher!" 

And  at  every  cotton  hill 
Well  and  swift  he  did  his  hoeing, 

Singing  louder,  clearer  still, 
Till  I  heard  the  echoes  ringing 

In  my  spirit  brave  and  strong, 
Till  I  homeward  turned  me  singing, 

Singing  over  Cato's  song. 


'I  WOULDNA  GIE  A  COPPER  PLACK" 

I  WOULDNA  gie  a  copper  plack 
For  ony  man  that  turns  his  back 

On  duty  clear. 

I  wouldna  tak  his  word  or  note, 
I  wouldna  trust  him  for  a  groat 
Nor  lift  an  oar  in  ony  boat 

Which  he  might  steer. 

When  things  are  just  as  things  should  be 
And  Fortune  gies  a  man  the  plea 

Where'er  he  be 
It  isna  hard  to  understand 
How  he  may  walk  through  house  and  land 
Wi'  cheerfu'  face  and  open  hand 

Continually. 

But  when,  i'  spite  o'  wark  and  care, 
A  man  must  loss  and  failure  bear, 

He  merits  praise 
Wha  will  not  to  misfortune  bow, 
Wha  cocks  his  bonnet  on  his  brow 
145 


'  I    WOULD  '  N  A    GIE    A    COPPER    PL  A  C  K 

And  fights  and  fights,  he  kens  na  how 
Through  long  hard  days. 

I  wouldna  gie  an  auld  bawbee 
For  ony  man  that  I  could  see 

Who  didna  hold 

The  sweetness  o'  his  mither's  name, 
The  kindness  o'  his  brother's  claim, 
The  honor  o'  a  woman's,  fame 

Far  mair  than  gold. 

Nor  is  it  hard  for  him  to  do 

Wha  kens  his  friends  are  leal  and  true 

Love  sweet  and  strong, 
Whose  heart  knows  not  from  year  to  year 
The  shadow  of  a  doubt  or  fear 
Or  feels  the  falling  of  a  tear 

For  ony  wrong. 

But  gie  him  praise  whose  love  is  pain, 
Who,  wronged,  forgives  and  loves  again, 

And  though  he  grieves 
Lets  not  the  dear  one  from  his  care, 
But  loves  him  mair  and  mair  and  mair, 
And  bides  his  time  wi'  hope  and  prayer 

And  still  believes. 
146 


THE     LIGHT     HEART 

Ay,  gie  him  praise  wha  doesna  fear 
The  uphill  fight  from  year  to  year 

And  wha  grips  fast 
His  ain  dear  ones  through  good  or  ill  ; 
Wha,  if  they  wander,  loves  them  still. 
Some  day  of  joy  he'll  get  his  fill — 

He'll  win  at  last. 


THE  LIGHT  HEART 

MY  siller  an  gold  I  hae  had  to  tine 

An'  lost  are  the  lands  that  ance  were  mine. 

The  stranger  sits  in  my  father's  ha' — 

For  when  ye  begin,  'tis  easy  to  fa'. 

If  my  heart  werna  light,  I  think  I  wad  dee; 

But  when  I  was  poorest,  it  aye  said  to  me, 
"There's  your  wark,  begin  it! 
He's  worth  gold  can  win  it! 
Penny's  always  penny's  brither, 
A  gude  penny  brings  anither." 

Sae,  rather  than  cry,  alas  an'  alack! 

I'm  doing  my  best  to  win  a'  things  back. 

Many  guid  friends  I  had  ance  on  a  day 
But  they  went  wi'  the  siller  an'  land  away, 
147 


THE     LIGHT     HEART 

When  I  needed  nae  help,  I  had  plenty  o'  prof 
fer; 

When  I  needed  help  maist,  I  hadna  an  offer. 
If  my  heart  werna  light,  I  think  I'd  been  dead, 
But  aye,  when  I  fretted,  it  cheerily  said, 
"There's  your  wark,  begin  it! 
Friendship!    You  must  win  it! 
If  first  to  yourself  you'll  be  true, 
True  friends  you'll  find  mair  than  eneu." 
For   friendship,   gie   friendship — not   siller   and 

gold. 
An'  I'm  thankfu'  I  did  just  what  I  was  told. 

Sometimes  the  days  are  eerie  an'  dreary, 
Sometimes  my  wark  is  lonesome  and  weary; 
I  mind  o'  the  feasting  and  dancing  and  damng, 
The  music  an'  love,  the  sunshine  and  laughing, 
An'  I  think  if  my  heart  werna  light  I  wad  greet 
But  aye  it  makes  answer  sae  couthie  an'  sweet, 
"Say  it's  dark  above  ye, 
Say  there's  nane  to  love  ye, 
Plenty  o'  folk  are  glad  an'  dear, 
Plenty  o'  folk  hae  gold  an'  gear ; 
It's  mean  for  yoursel'  to  be  always  repining, 
For  somewhere  on  earth  the  sun  is  aye  shining." 
148 


A     COU N TRY -PL A CE     IN     HEAVEN 

Sae  I  willna  be  sorry  for  a'  that  is  gane ; 
Murky  or  sunny,  I'll  never  complain 
As  lang  as  my  heart  is  sae  canty  an  light, 
Nae  matter  what  comes,  a'  is  sure  to  be  right; 
If  fashed  for  mysel,  then  for  ithers  I'll  say 
On  somebody's  head,  there  is  sunshine  to-day. 
Busy  the  lee  lang  day, 
Singing  the  hours  away, 
Never  was  I  sae  happy  before, 
Never  for  gold  or  siller  in  store 
Wad  I  gie  up  the  cheerfu'  leal  friend  at  my  side, 
For  hadna  my  heart  been  sae  light,  I  had  died. 


A  COUNTRY  PLACE  IN  HEAVEN 

(She  said,  "She  would  rather  go  to  a  country  place 
in  Heaven." — "Letters  from  the  black  country.") 

"Mv  dear,  dear  lass,  thou'rt  goin'  away 

From  t'  dark,  sad  streets  o'  this  weary  town, 
Where  t'  smoke  cloud  shadows  the  brightest  day. 

And  the  black  rain's  allus  falling  down. 
From  clemmin'  and  cold  and  pain  and  care 

And  t'  shadow  o'  death  that  bides  wi'  them 
Thou'rt  goin'  to  God  and  to  Heaven  so  fair 

And  to  t'  streets  of  t'  New  Jerusalem." 
149 


A     COUNTRY     PLACE     IN     HEAVEN 

"Ay,  lad ;  but  I  should  be  mazed  and  lost, 

So  I've  asked  o'  God  a  better  thing 
Than  the  golden  streets  and  angel  host 

And  the  multitudes  that  shout  and  sing. 
I'm  weary  to  death ;  I'd  like  it  best 

If  He'd  find  some  green  and  quiet  spot 
'Mong  the  hills  o'  God  where  I  could  rest 

Till  t'  trouble  of  Earth  was  clean  forgot. 

"For  many  a  year  my  heart  hes  pined 

For  a  sight  o'  Cheviot's  still  blue  fells, 
For  their  lonely  becks  and  fresh  clear  wind, 

For  t'  yellow  broom  and  bonnie  blue  bells. 
And  so,  where  t'  river  of  God  runs  calm 

'Mong  t'  hills  of  Heaven,  while  t'  soft  sweer 

breeze 
Just  murmurs  about  me  like  a  palm 

I'll  rest  and  listen  beneath  the  trees. 

"For  oh,  I'm  weary  and  fear'd  and  sad, 

And  the  thought  o'  the  multitudes  troubles  me, 

And  it  seems  as  if  I  couldn't  be  glad 
In  t'  golden  city  if  I  wanted  thee. 

In  Heaven,  there's  country,  places,  I  know, 
So  I've  prayed  to  rest  in  some  quiet  spot 
150 


HONEY,     TAKE     CARE     O       THYSEN 

Till  ta  comes  to  me ;  and  then,  dear  Joe, 
The  trouble  of  earth  will  be  forgot. 

And  I'll  walk  with  thee  on  the  golden  street 
And  I'll  sing  with  thee  the  glad  new  song 

And  I  won't  be  feared  for  the  crowds  we  meet, 
For  the  peace  of  Heaven  will  hev  made  me 
strong." 


HONEY,  JENNY !  TAKE  CARE  O'  THYSEN 

iv:/  i 

WHEN  I  was  nobbut  a  bit  of  a  bairn, 

With  my  speller,  and  pencil,  and  pen, 
Mother  would  say,  "As  thou  goes  o'er  the  moor 
Keep  clear  of  the  moss,  keep  the  road  that  is 
sure  ; 

Honey,  Jenny!  take  care  o'  thysen." 

II 
When  I  was  a  lassie,  clever  and  bright, 

And  they  called  me  a  year  over  ten, 
My  mother  would  say,  "Be  faithful  and  true, 
Hearty  and  handy,  do  all  thou  should  do — 

Honey,  Jenny!  take  care  o'  thysen." 


HONEY,     TAKE     CARE    O*     THYSEN 
III 

And  well  I  can  mind  one  soft  summer  night 

That  she  walked  with  me  over  the  fen. 
"Jenny,"  said  she,  "thou  art  bonnie  and  bright, 
But  beauty  is  naught  unless  thou  do  right; 
Honey,  Jenny!  take  care  o'  thysen." 

IV 

I  got  me  a  lover;  mother  looked  dour; 

She  was  wonderful  queer  about  men. 
"It's  easy  to  marry,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh; 
"But  housekeeping's  harder — you'll  ken  by  and 
by- 

Honey,  Jenny!  take  care  o'  thysen." 

v 

We  married,  and  John  was  hard  to  control, 

And  I  said  a  good  deal  against  men; 
But  mother  said,  "Lass,  a  wife  that  is  cross 
Is  walking  a  road  far  worse  than  the  moss — 
Honey,  Jenny!  take  care  o'  thysen. 

VI 

"Look  well  to  thy  feet,  look  well  to  thy  tongue, 
For  all  husbands  are  nobbut  but  men; 
152 


OUR     AIN     FOLK 

Once  get  up  a  quarrel,  it's  worse  every  day, 
So  bear  and  forbear,  and  mind  what  I  say — 
Honey,  Jenny!  take  care  o'  thysen. 

VII 

"Take  care  o'  thysen — thy  children  are  safe, 
And  thy  husband  is  first  among  men. 

My    days    are    but    short — thou'rt    bonnie    and 
young, 

Take  care  o'  thy  feet,  take  care  o'  thy  tongue, 
Take  care  o'  all  women,  be  shy  of  all  men — 
Honey,  Jenny!  take  care  o'  thysen." 


OUR  AIN  FOLK 

i 
OUR  ain  folk  are  the  true  folk; 

They're  true  to  us  night  and  day; 
True  when  we  sit  on  the  hearthstone ; 

True  when  we're  far  away. 
Other  folk  may  be  good  enough, 

But  it's  sairly  we  would  miss 
The  kindly  grip  o'  our  ain  folk, 

Their  loving  smile  and  kiss. 
153 


OUR     AIN     FOLK 
II 

Our  ain  folk  are  the  kind  folk ; 

They're  patient  wi'  our  ill-will; 
Often  we  wrong  the  good  home  hearts, 

But  they  love  and  trust  us  still. 
Other  folk  may  be  weel  enough, 

But,  oh!  it  is  always  best 
In  grief  to  go  to  our  ain  folk — 

To   father  and   mother's  breast. 

in 
Our  ain  folk  may  be  plain  folk, 

Hae  little  o'  gold  or  gear; 
But,  oh !  the  riches  o'  true  love, 

And  an  honest  smile  and  tear! 
Other  folk  may  be  fine  folk, 

But  it  isn't  siller  can  buy 
A  mother's  kiss,  or  a  father's  care, 

Or  a  brother's  beaming  eye. 

IV 

Oh,  but  he  is  a  coward  loon, 

Though  the  world  rnay  call  him  great,. 
That  shames  to  think  o'  his  ain  folk 

Because  o'  their  low  estate. 


OUR     AIN     FOLK 

If  he  scorn  their  homely  dress  and  ways, 
And  their  hands  wi'  labor  brown, 

I  say  that  he  is  a  coward  loon, 
Though  he  wear  a  kingly  crown. 

v 

We  may  build  us  finer  houses 

Than  the  cot  where  we  were  born, 
And  other  loves  may  come  to  us 

Than  the  loves  of  life's  young  morn ; 
But  we'll  ne'er  forget  the  hearthstone 

Where  we  said  our  childhood's  prayer, 
And  we'll  ne'er  forget  our  ain  folk, 

And  their  tender  love  and  care. 

VI 

For  our  ain  folk  are  the  true  folk; 

True  to  us  night  and  day; 
True  when  we  sit  on  the  hearthstone; 

True  when  we're  far  away. 
We're  never  too  rich  for  our  ain  folk, 

And  never  too  wise  or  grand 
To  be  proud  and  glad  o'  their  blessing, 

Their  kiss,  and  their  true  right  hand. 


155 


"HE  FAILETH  NOT" 

i 

I  HAVE  tried  Love,  and  I  have  known  Love  fail ; 
Have  trusted  Friends,  and  found  that  Friends 

forgot ; 

Sought  help  from  mine  own  heart,  without  avail ; 
"He  Faileth  Not !" 


ii 
Neither  by  day  nor  night.     In  youth  and  age, 

In  poverty,  or  in  the  fairest  lot, 
In  sorrow,  or  in  joy,  His  Word  is  Truth: 
"He  Faileth  Not !" 


in 

If  I  should  let  all  other  comfort  go, 

And  every  other  promise  be  forgot; 
My  soul  would  sit  and  sing,  because  I  know, 
"He  Faileth  Not!" 
156 


THE    TREE    GOD     PLANTS 
IV 

"He  Faileth  Not!"    What  winds  of  God  may 

blow, 

What  safe,  or  perilous  ways  may  be  my  lot, 
Gives  me  but  little  care ;  for  this  I  know — 
"He  Faileth  Not!" 


THE  TREE  GOD  PLANTS 

No  Wind  that  blows  can  ever  kill 

The  tree  God  plants. 
It  bloweth  east,  it  bloweth  west, 
The  tender  leaves  have  little  rest 
But  any  wind  that  blows  it  best. 

The  tree  God  plants 
Strikes  deeper  roots,  grows  higher  still, 
Spreads  wider  boughs,  for  God's  good-will 

Meets  all  its  wants. 

There  is  no  frost  has  power  to  blight 

The  tree  God  shields; 
Its  roots  are  warm  beneath  soft  snows 
And  when  Spring  comes,  it  surely  knows, 
And  every  bud  to  blossom  grows. 

The  tree  God  shields 
157 


THE     TREE     GOD     PLANTS 

Grows  on  apace  by  day  and  night 
Till,  sweet  to  taste  and  fair  to  sight, 
Its  fruit  it  yields. 

There  is  no  storm  has  power  to  blast 

The  tree  God  knows ; 
No   thunderbolt,   nor  beating  rain, 
No  lightning  flash  nor  hurricane; 
When  they  are  spent,  it  doth  remain 

The  tree  God  knows. 
Through  every  tempest  standeth  fast 
And  from  its  first  day  to  its  last 

Still  fairer  grows. 

If,  in  the  Soul's  still  garden  place 

A  seed  God  sows, 
A  little  seed,  it  soon  will  grow 
And  far  and  near  all  men  will  know 
For  heavenly  lands,  He  bids  it  blow. 

A  seed  God  sows 

And  up  it  springs  by  day  and  night 
Through  life,  through  death  it  groweth  right. 

Forever  grows. 


A  QUESTION 

IF  CHRIST  should  suddenly  stand  upon  Broad 
way, 

Teaching  the  poor  and  wretched,  rich  and  strong, 
I  wonder  if  He  would  pause  to  preach  or  pray 
Or  lift  some  pleading  psalm  or  joyful  song. 

And   if   the   crowd   should   press   and   He   say 

"Come, 

Within  my  churches,  there  is  surely  room," 
And  find  them  closed  with  many  a  bar  and  lock 
At   those   shut   doors,   would   Jesus   stand   and 

knock  ? 

Would  He  don  shining  alb,  or  splertdid  stole, 
Black  gown  or  snowy  robe,  or  mystic  band, 
Tell  what.  St.  Peter  said,  or  quote  St.  Paul, 
Or  mutter  prayers  that  none  could  understand? 

Or,  would  He  walk  down  streets  of  misery 
And  cry  "Poor  weary  ones,  come  unto  me !" 
The  hungry  feed,  the  naked  clothe  and  warm, 
The  little  children  bear  upon  his  arm? 
159 


PAUL  OR  CHRIST 

"I  SUFFER  not  that  any  woman  teach, 

Or  bear  the  message  of  the  Lord's  good  will ; 

Let  her  keep  silence ;  she  hath  no  call  to  preach ; 
Tis  hers  to  learn,  and  modestly  sit  still." 

Thus  the  Apostle?    Yet,  the  risen  Lord 
Waiting  beside  the  newly  broken  tomb 

For  messenger  to  send  with  his  first  word 
Unto  that  church,  within  that  upper  room, 

Chose  but  a  woman  with  a  loving  heart 

(Oh!   fair  her  feet  with  those  glad  tidings 
shod) : 

"I  am  arisen,  and  I  now  depart 

And  go  unto  our  Father,  and  our  God." 

Did  Christ  make  some  mistake,  that  first  by  her 
The  truth  and  light  of  Resurrection  shone? 

He — Mary  chose  to  be  His  messenger. 
Would  Paul  have  sent  St.  Peter  or  St.  John? 
160 


A  SONG  IN  THE  NIGHT 

"Until  the  day  breaks  and  the  shadows  flee  away." — 
Solomon's  Song,  ii.,  17. 

UNTIL  the  day  break  and  the  shadows  flee  away 
Guide  of  pilgrims,  Light  of  Earth,  leave  me  not, 

I  pray, 

For  the  road  is  dark  and  dreary 
And  my  feet  are  sore  and  weary; 
Friends  and  lovers  from  me  straying 
Through  the  darkness  hear  me  praying, 
Jesus !  tender  Jesus !     Oh !  leave  me  not,  I  pray, 
Until  the  day  break,  and  the  shadows  flee  away. 

Until  the  day  break  and  the  shadows  flee  away, 
Comforter  and  Counselor !  Leave  me  not,  I  pray. 
As  the  nights  with  sorrow  lengthen, 
Be  Thou  near  to  soothe  and  strengthen 
As  my  griefs  grow  stronger,  clearer, 
Draw  Thou  nearer,  and  still  nearer. 
Jesus !  tender  Jesus !  Oh !  watch  with  me,  I  pray, 
Until  the  day  break,  and  the  shadows  flee  away. 
161 


TRUE     EASTER 

Until  the  day  break  and  the  shadows  flee  away 
Gentle  shepherd  of  my  soul,  oh!  still  near  me 

stay 

Till  the  doubting,  fearing,  straying 
Feeble  praise  and  trembling  praying, 
Till  the  weeping  and  the  sighing^ 
Till  the  mortal  pain  of  dying 
Is  all  over,  past  and  over,  and  I  hear  Thee  say, 
"Waken !  for  the  day  has  broke  and  shadows  fled 


away 


TRUE  EASTER 

THE  world  for  the  dead  Christ  weepeth 

And  holdeth  her  Lenten  fast. 
Doth  she  think  that  Christ  still  sleepeth 

And  night  is  not  overpast? 
Nay,  but  the  word  is  spoken ; 
Nay,  but  the  tomb  is  broken 
And    "Christ    is    risen!     Yea,    Christ    is    risen 
indeed!" 

Long  past  is  the  Lenten  moaning, 

Long  past  is  the  bitter  night, 
Long  past  is  the  Easter  dawning ; 

Now,  it  is  noonday  light. 
162 


TRUE     EASTER 

Set  every  song  to  gladness ; 

Why  should  the  bride  have  sadness  ? 

Her  "Lord  is  risen !     Her  Lord  is  risen  indeed !" 

He  suffered  once  and  forever 

The  cross,  the  smiting  pain, 
Once  did  the  sepulcher  sever 

But  never,  never  again 
Earth  nor  Hell  can  bereave  us ; 
Jesus  will  never  leave  us, 

For    "He    hath    risen!     Yea,    He    hath    risen 
indeed  P' 

Always  so  ready  to  love  us, 

Always  so  willing  to  stay, 
Pray,  pray  that  the  living  Jesus 

May  walk  with  us,  day  by  day. 
Always  with  Easter  glory, 

Always  the  same  glad  story : 
"The    Christ    is    risen !     The    Christ    is    risen 
indeed!" 


FIRST  EASTER  EVE 

IN  old  Jerusalem  't  was  Easter  Eve, 

But  its  glad  joy  bells  in  no  heart  did  chime, 
Nor  royal  pomp,  nor  priestly  rites  relieve 
The   strange  dumb   sadness   of  that   waiting 

time; 
Through  all  her  streets  and  gates  men  silence 

kept, 
And  in  her  chambers,  women  moaned  and  wept. 

What  song  of  singing  girls,  what  trumpet  call, 
Could  comfort  hearts  that  held  a  cold  despair ! 

For  sacrificial  smoke  hung  like  a  pall 
O'er  Roman  citadel  and  temple  stair; 

And  every  eye  was  dropped,  lest  it  should  see 

That  empty  cross  upon  dread  Calvary. 

Then  in  a  garden  still  and  sweet  with  flowers, 
Two  women  wept  beside  a  fast-sealed  tomb  ; 
Low  wept  and  watched  through  many  weary 
hours 

164 


FIRST     EASTER    EVE 

For  one  loved  voice  to  break  the  speechless 

gloom. 

O  Christ,  thou  wert  not  deaf !  and  thou  didst  see 
With  sweet  content  that  loving  sympathy. 

Till  through  the  dim,  sweet  shadows  came  apace 
A  gleam  of  spears,  a  sound  of  martial  stir, 

Helmets  and  shields  flashed  in  that  sacred  place, 
And  soldiers  gathered  round  the  sepulcher. 

O  Mary!  still  beloved,  well  might  you  grieve, 

Dark  was  the  grave  on  that  first  Easter  Eve. 

But  oh  the  glory  of  the  Easter  Morn! 

Bring  lilies  in  both  arms  and  joyful  sing, 
"Now  Life  and  Immortality  is  born, 

And  over  Sin  and  Death  our  Christ  is  King; 
Angels  are  sitting  in  the  grave's  dark  prison, 
And  we  shall  rise,  because  our  Lord  has  risen." 


SLAIN  FAITH 

THE  sea  shrank  sighing,  from  the  wet  gray  sands, 
The  sea-birds  drifted  on  the  dull  green  sea. 

She  held  waste  marigolds  within  her  hands 
And  dropped  them  one  by  one,  so  wearily. 

I  said,  "Dear  child,  earth  hath  no  hopeless  pain, 
The  roses  fade,  yet  roses  bloom  again." 

"Hath  Love  been  wronged  or  lost?"   She  an 
swered  me, 
"Love  lost  or  wronged,  my  heart  could  find 

once  more 
Next  year  hath  its  own  blessing  and  may  be 

More  full  of  love  than  any  year  before. 
For  Love,  I  do  not  weep.    If  Love  were  slain 
With  summer  roses  it  would  live  again." 

"Why  then,  deceiving  hopes  have  put  to  shame 
Their  splendid  promise."     "Ah,  not  so,"  she 

said. 

"Even  from  failure,  Hope  springs  up  aflame; 
The  new  Hope  shines,  ere  yet  the  old  is  dead. 
166 


EASTER 

Earth  hath  no  broken  promise  that  could  make 
My  hopeless  soul,  with  cold  despairing  ache. 

"But,  Oh!  When  Faith  is  dead!  When  cruel 
Doubt 

Stands  by  the  soul  and  whispers  Faith  away, 
Questions  within,  and  shadows  round  about, 

And  I  must  reason,  where  I  fain  would  pray, 
Then  Life  of  Life  is  but  a  shadowy  wraith 

To  her  who  weeps  above  her  murdered  Faith." 

EASTER 

I  HAVE  no  frankincense,  no  myrrh, 
I  have  no  spice,  no  oil — 

But  here  are  snowy  Roses,  Christ 
Without  a  stain  or  soil, 

0  fairest  Lord,  for  Thy  dear  sake, 

My  Roses  take. 

1  have  no  silver  and  no  gem, 

No  virgin  gold  for  Thee, 
But  here  are  Lilies  white  as  light 

And  sweet  with  purity. 
O  fairest  Lord,  for  Thy  dear  sake, 

My  Lilies  take. 
167 


GOOD  FRIDAY 
A.D.  33 

I  SAW  a  vision  of  a  clamorous  crowd 

Tossing  their  arms  aloft,  with  panting  breath 
And  vests  ungirdled,  imprecating  loud 

Upon  the  Just  One,  Calvary's  shameful  death. 
And  from  the  crowd,  a  child  with  wild  wet  eyes 

And  hair  blown  back  with  running,  take  the 

way 
Into  Jerusalem,  full  of  grieved  surprise 

And  anxious  anger  at  men's  cold  delay. 

His  child  heart,  pure  and  true  thought  all  must 

fly 

To  save  the  Lord.    With  sad  reproach  he  said, 
"He  loved  you !    Did  you  good  continually, 

He  healed  the  sick  and  blind,  the  poor  he  fed !" 
'Twas  all  in  vain.     The  solemn  darkness  crept 

Through  silent  streets,  in  awful  mystery. 
Women  and  children  in  their  chambers  wept 
And   men,   with   hidden   faces,   turned   from 
Calvary. 

168 


WHEN  TIME  SHALL  BE  NO  MORE 

WHEN  Time  shall  be  no  more,  when  God  shall 

make 

A  new  Earth,  and  the  old  one  pass  away, 
Shall  we  be  satisfied  when  we  awake 
And  miss  the  stars,  the  sun,  the  shadowy  day? 

If  we  keep  memories  of  some  happy  spot, 
Of  some  sad  "sacred  way"  of  bitter  tears; 
If  our  earth-home  on  Heaven  be  unforgot 
How  shall  we  miss  it  through  eternal  years  ? 

The  forest  glades  with  their  green  tempered  light, 
The  gray  old  sea,  the  fresh  w'nds  winnowing 

wings, 
Green-sandaled    mountains,    with    their    peaks 

snow  white, 
Shall  we  forget  these  in  Heaven's  fairer  things? 

Old  Earth!     Dear  Earth!       Fair  are  thy  hills 

and  meads 

Trod  by  sweet  ransomed  spirits,  good  and  true, 
169 


WHEN     TIME     SHALL     BE     NO     MORE 

Linked  with  innumerable  noble  deeds — 

Shall  we  forget  thee  when  God  makes  the  new  ? 

Bought  with  so  great  a  price  of  Love  Divine, 
Hallowed  with  human  toil  and  grief  and  tears,, 
We  who  have  drunk  thy  sweet  and  bitter  wine 
Must  surely  love  thee  through  Eternal  Years ! 

For,  though  the  New  Earth  be  more  fair  and 

good 
Old  Earth!     Dear  Earth!     each  soul  will  keep 

some  spot, 

Some  hearth  or  temple,  some  sweet  lane  or  wood, 
Through  everlasting  ages,  unforgot. 


ANGELS,  HOW  DO  YOU  KEEP  EASTER? 

ANGELS,  how  do  you  keep  Easter? 

Mid  your  bright  and  happy  throng 
Is  it  in  adoring  worship 

And  the   rapturous  new  song? 
If  so,  let  our  praise  not  falter 

Ere  it  reach  the  risen  Lord, 
But  oh!  blend  its  human  minor 

With  your  own  triumphant  chord. 

Holy  Angels,  are  you  silent 

While  the  "Spirits  justified" 
Cry,  "Behold  the  Lamb  who  died!" 

Cry,  "All  Hail"  and  "Hallelujah!" 
Christ  the  Lord  for  sinners  slain? 

Are  you  silent,  full  of  rapture 
Listening  to  Earth's  glad  refrain — 

"Christ  the  Lord  for  sinners  slain?" 

Nay,  we  know  not ;  but  we  shall  know 

When  Life's  Passion  days  are  o'er 

171 


MOONLIGHT 

And  we  see  our  Easter  dawning 
Break  on  the  Eternal  shore. 

Fair  and  sweet  earth's  happy  Easter 
Full  of  hope  we  could  not  miss 

But,  the  heavenly  Easters  coming! 
Oh !  their  wonder  and  their  bliss ! 


MOONLIGHT 

SUCH  a  deep  peace !  The  hush  of  Life,  not  Death, 
River  and  woodland  in  a  trancid  calm 

As  if  great  Nature  paused  and  held  her  breath 
To  hear  the  undernotes  of  some  grand  psalm 

Whose  echoes,  trembling  from  afar,  did  move 
With  sweet  expectancy,  her  heart  of  Love. 

Then  came  the  fresh  west  wind  and  the  tall  trees 
Hearing  its  secret,  shook  their  leaves  in  glee 

And  lowly  flowers  besought  the  passing  breeze 
And  mocking  birds  sent  forth  their  melody. 

While  in  the  sky,  there  grew  a  wondrous  light 
Until  the  Moon  arose,  to  comfort  Night. 

Then  sweet  commotion  touched  a  finer  life 
And  hearts  that  had  been  weary  all  the  day 
172 


NATURES     PRAYER 

Did  leave  their  bitterness  and  eager  strife 
With  Memory  or  Hope  or  Love  to  stray. 

So,  Life  from  sordid  cares  had  breathing  space 
And  held  sweet  recess  in  the  moonlight's  grace. 


NATURE'S  PRAYER 

IN  the  calm  dawning  mid  the  hush  and  chill 
Great   Nature   kneels   with   folded   hands,  to 

pray. 
The  flowers  bend  down  their  heads,  the  winds 

are  still, 
The  skies  hang  low  to  hear  what  she  doth  say. 

"Creator,  great,  and  excellently  good 

Giving  these    fresh  young  hours  each  morn 

anew, 

Wake  up  the  voices  of  the  field  and  wood, 
Wipe    from   my    face   Thine   own   baptismal 
dew." 

"I  pray  for  light  and  strength.    Lift  up  the  gates 
And  bid  Thy  Sun  come  like  a  Bridegroom 

through ; 

See  how  my  heart  in  glad  impatience  waits 
Eager  to  lift  my  daily  task  anew." 
173 


NATURE     S     PRAYER 

Then  through  the  Amber  East,  came  forth  the 

Sun 
And    raised    the    Suppliant,    kissing   her    for 

grace. 

He  smiled  on  harvest  fields  and  they  were  won ; 
The  vines  blushed  red ;  the  flowers  laughed  in 
his  face 

And  everything  was  glad.     So  Nature  gay 
Toiled  like  a  goddess  through  the  long  hot 

hours 
And  when  she  knelt  again  at  Eve  to  pray, 

Clasped  in  her  hands,  were  corn  and  fruit  and 
flowers. 

"Lord,  I  am  tired — but  happy ;  let  me  rest, 
For  I  the  burden  of  the  day  have  borne ; 

Fold  me  in  darkness  on  Thy  peaceful  breast 
Until  Thy  smile  shall  brighten  night  to  morn." 


ALONE 

SHE  stands  beside  the  cottage  door 

To  watch  the  dying  day. 
Her  raven  hair  is  sprinkled  o'er 

With  flakes  of  Silver,  gray. 
And  many  a  line  of  sadness  sears 

That  pale  yet  lovely  face 
To  mark  where  slow  and  silent  tears 

Have  left  their  lasting  trace. 

And  still  her  whispered  thoughts  will  tell 

Of  scenes  that  are  no  more 
And  scan  the  once  loved  forms  that  dwell 

On  Memory's  shadowy  shore 
Again  the  little  cot  to  deck 

That  now  so  empty  stands, 
Again  to  feel  around  her  neck 

The  touch  of  tiny  hands. 

"How  long,"  the  weary  spirit  cries, 

"Within  this  world  of  pain 
Ere  neath  the  never  fading  skies 

I  meet  them,  once  again?" 

175 


HELP 


And,  as  she  views  the  silver  night 

Slow  sweeping  to  the  west, 
A  murmured  prayer  in  faith  takes  flight 

To  him  who  giveth  rest. 


HELP 

MY  hands  have  often  been  weary  hands 
Too  tired  to  do  their  daily  task. 

And  just  to  fold  them  for  evermore 

Has  seemed  the  boon  that  was  best  to  ask. 

My  feet  have  often  been  weary  feet 
Too  tired  to  walk  another  day 

And  I've  thought  "To  sit  and  calmly  wait 
Is  better  far,  than  the  onward  way." 

My  eyes  with  tears  have  been  so  dim 
That  I  have  said,  "I  cannot  mark 

The  work  I  do  or  the  way  I  take, 

For  everywhere,  it  is  dark — so  dark !" 

But  oh,  thank  God !  there  has  never  come 
That  hour  that  makes  the  bravest  quail ; 

No  matter  how  weary  my  feet  or  hands, 
God  never  has  suffered  my  heart  to  fail. 
176 


TWO     GATES 


So,  the  folded  hands  take  up  their  work, 
And  the  weary  feet  pursue  their  way, 

And  all  is  clear  when  the  good  heart  cries 
"Be  brave!    To-morrow's  another  day." 


TWO  GATES 

OPEN  the  East  gate  now, 

And  let  the  day  come  in, 
The  day  with  unstained  brow 

Untouched  by  care  or  sin. 
For  her,  we  watch  and  wait, 

Wait  with  the  birds  and  dew, 
Open   the   Eastern   gate 

And  let  the  daylight  through. 

Uplift  thy  daily  toil 

With  brain  as  fresh  and  clear, 
Strong  hands  that  have  no  soil 

And  heart  untouched  by  fear. 
Marching  unto  thy  noon, 

Marching  unto  thy  rest, 
When  shadows  lengthen  soon 

Comes  calm  and  peaceful  rest. 
177 


TWO     GATES 

Open  the  Western  gate 

And  let  the  daylight  go 
In  pomp  of  royal  state, 

In  rose  and  amber  glow. 
It  is  so  late,  so  late, 

The  birds  sing  sweet  and  low ; 
Open  the  Western  gate 

And  let  the  daylight  go. 

Lay  down  thy  daily  toil 

Glad  of  thy  labor  don£, 
Glad  of  the  night's  assoil, 

Glad  of  thy  wages  won. 
With  hearts  that  fondly  wait, 

With  grateful  hearts  aglow, 
Pray  at  the  Western  gate 

And  let  the  daylight  go. 

Pray  at  the  Eastern  gate 

For  all  the  day  can  ask, 
Pray  at  the  Western  gate 

Holding  thy  finished  task. 
It  waxeth  late — so  late 

The  night  falls  cold  and  gray, 
But  through  Life's  Western  gate 

Dawns  Life's  Eternal  day. 
178 


THE  SONG  MAKERS 

"SINGER,  how  do  you  make  your  songs  ?" 

I  find  them  ready  made  for  me  ; 
I  find  them  in  the  busy  streets 

And  in  the  woods  and  by  the  sea, 
I  hear  them  too  in  Labor's  halls ; 

The  great  wheel  hums  a  song  for  me, 
The  engines  throb  in  perfect  time 

As  to  a  noble  symphony. 

For  all  the  starry  sky  is  bright, 

For  all  the  earth  is  green  below, 
For  all  June  has  her  sun  and  rose, 

For  all  is  Winter's  fire  and  snow. 
My  songs  are  in  the  country  lane 

And  in  the  thousand  streeted  town, 
For  Nature  sings  them  everywhere, 

And  I? — I  only  take  them  down. 

Go  find  your  songs ;  keep  eye  and  ear 
Attent  to  all  that  Nature  sings, 
179 


A     LESSON     IN     A     GARDEN 

For  know  that  love  is  melody, 
That  labor  gives  the  spirit  wings. 

And  there  are  sweeter,  grander  songs 
Than  any  form  of  rhythmic  words ; 

Some  work  them  bravely  out,  like  men ; 
And  others  sing  them  like  the  birds. 


A  LESSON  IN  A  GARDEN 

IN  the  bright  splendor  of  the  Spring 
When  the  first  butterflies  are  flying 

And  the  south  wind,  with  scented  wing, 
Shakes  all  the  rosebuds  with  its  sighing, 

Then  the  green  caterpillars  dare 

To  feed  on  all  things  fresh  and  fair. 

One  of  them — none  to  my  surprise — 
Of  all  but  his  own  self  unheeding, 

His  sixteen  legs,  two  jaws,  twelve  eyes, 
Upon  a  cabbage  leaf  was  feeding; 

As  busy,  self  absorbed  and  trim 
As  if  the  world  was  made  for  him, 

A  shrouded  shrivel'd  form  he  spies 
Had  once  a  caterpillar  been; 
180 


A     LESSON     IN     A     GARDEN 

Had  sixteen  legs,  two  jaws,  twelve  eyes 
And  worn  like  him,  the  brightest  green. 

"Really,"  he  said,  and  made  a  pause, 
"This  thing's  a  chrysalis,  I  suppose!" 

"I've  heard  that  it  will  live  again, 

Will  breathe  and  eat,  have  wings  and  fly ; 

The  thing's  not  likely  I  maintain, 
And  what's  not  likely,  I'll  deny. 

I  hope,  at  least,  without  pretense, 
I  am  a  worm  of  common  sense." 

E'en  as  he  spoke,  the  case  was  rent 
And  lo !  two  wondrous  wings  unfold 

Of  bronze  and  crimson  richly  blent 
And  powdered  o'er  with  dust  of  gold. 

They  spread  themselves  for  happy  flight 
Bathed  in  the  sunshine  and  the  light. 

The  caterpillar  crawled  away 
Eating  his  road ;  but  I  could  see, 

Though  he  had  nothing  more  to  say, 
He'd  lost  his  self-sufficiency. 

Perchance,  though  to  his  leaf  he  clings, 
He  dreams  of  gold  and  crimson  wings. 


181 


WANDERING  FROM  HOME  TO  HOME 

WHEN  swallows  were  building  in  early  Spring 

And  the  roses  were  red  in  June, 
When  the  great  white  lilies  were  fair  and  sweet 

In  the  heat  of  the  August  noon, 
When  the  winds  were  blowing  the  yellow  wheat 

And  the  song  of  the  harvest  nigh 
And  the  beautiful  world  lay  calm  and  sweet 

In  the  joy  of  a  cloudless  sky — 

Then  the  swallows  were  full  of  glad  content 

In  the  hope  of  their  northern  nest, 
Were  sure  that  the  land  they  were  tarrying  in 

Of  all  other  lands  was  the  best. 
Ah !  if  they  had  heard  in  those  blissful  days 

The  voice  they  must  heed,  say  "Go," 
They  had  left  their  nests  with  a  keen  regret 

And  their  flight  had  been  sad  and  slow. 

But  when   summer  was  gone  and  the  flowers 

were  dead 

And  the  brown  leaves  fell  with  a  sigh 
182 


WANDERING     FROM     HOME     TO     HOME 

And  they  watched  the  sun  setting  every  day 

Further  on  in  the  northern  sky, 
Then  the  voice  was  sweet  when  it  bid  them  "go," 

They  were  eager  for  southward  flight 
And  they  beat  their  wings  to  a  new  born  hope 

When  they  went  at  the  morning  light. 

If  the  way  was  long,  yet  the  way  was  glad 

And  they  brighter  and  brighter  grew 
As  they  dipped  their  wings  in  the  glowing  heat 

As  they  still  to  the  southward  flew. 
Till  they  found  the  land  of  the  summer  sun 

And  the  land  where  the  nightingale  sings 
And  joyfully  rested  mid  rose  and  song 

Their  beautiful  weary  wings. 

Like  swallows  we  wander  from  home  to  home, 

We  are  birds  of  passage  at  best ; 
In  many  a  spot  we  have  dwelt  awhile 

We  have  built  us  many  a  nest. 
But  the  heart  of  the  Father  will  touch  our  hearts, 

He  will  speak  to  us  soft  and  low, 
We  shall  follow  the  Voice  to  the  better  land 

And  its  bliss  and  its  beauty  know. 


THE  SONG  OF  SUMMERTIME 

I  SING  the  sweet  warm  Summer  Time, 
The   long  green   miles   of   swaying  grass,   the 
Straying  kine  of  Summer  Time. 

The  scented  sunny  Summer  Time, 
The   singing  birds,   the   butterflies,   the   honey 
bees  of  Summer  Time. 

The  royal  rose-crowned  Summer  Time, 
The  peonies,  and  marigolds  and  poppies  drunk 
with  Summer  Time. 

The  fervent,  eager  Summer  Time, 
The  strong,  deep    scents  of  bleaching  grass,  the 
growing  corn  of  Summer  Time. 

The  dewy  dawns  of  Summer  Time, 
The  piping  birds  in  leafy  nests  that  greet  the 
day,  in  Summer  Time. 

The  languid  noons  of  Summer  Time, 
The    sleepy    peace,    the    spicy    smells,    crushed 
flowers  and  fruits  of  Summer  Time. 
184 


THE     BURIAL     OF     SUMMER 

The  quiet  nights  of  Summer  Time, 
The  crimson  hills,  the  purple  dawns,  the  few 
large  stars  of  Summer  Time. 

The  fruitful  Mother,  Summer  Time, 
That    travels    with    the    trees    and    grain    and 

Fills  with  wine  the  glowing  cup 
That  shall  be  drunk  in  Autumn  Time. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SUMMER 

You  that  were  friends  with  the  birds  and  the 
roses, 

Now  you  may  weep.  We  have  buried  the  Sum 
mer. 

Gone  is  the  singing  time,  mown  are  the  grasses, 
All  the  vines  gathered. 

Gray  groweth  Earth,  with  her  things  that  were 

golden ; 
Gray  are  the  skies,  and  the  grass  is  all  dew 

drenched ; 

Streams  are  complaining,  winds  are  implacable, 
Stripping  the  branches. 
185 


THE     BURIAL     OF     SUMMER 

Yet,  splendid  Summer,  there's  hope  in  our  weep 
ing: 

Thine  is  a  sepulcher  named   Resurrection; 
Over  it  blooms,  amid  roses  prophetic, 

Lilies  of  promise. 
Thou    wilt    come    back    again — back    with    thy 

beauty, 

Birds  will  return  that  reluctant  went  seaward; 
Blossom  and  fruitage,  the  wheat  and  the  honey, 

Sunshine  and  plenty. 

Comes  to  the  heart  any  ransoming  summer, 
For  Love  that  is  slain  and  hopes  beaten  down 
ward? 

Can  it  redeem  all  its  wasted  affections, 
Music  and  laughter? 

God  shall  redeem  them ;  and  for  rilling  of  graves 
And  wringing  of  hands,  give  love  that's  immortal, 
Give  beauty  for  ashes,  pleasure  unfading, 
Summer  eternal. 


THE  SNOW  STORM 

THE  snow  came  floating  o'er  the  world 

From  out  the  dreary  sky 
As  if  to  recompense  mankind 

For  seeing  Nature  die. 

O  dreary  world !     So  like  my  life 

On  which  the  sorrows  fall. 
Must  every  sunbeam  fade  away 

And  snow  flakes  cover  all  ? 

No,  doubting  one,  the  sunbeams  soon 

Will  come  to  earth  again; 
And  winter's  cold  and  cheerless  snow 

Will  melt  in  April  rain. 

Thus  sorrow  from  thy  aching  heart 

Shall  flee  like  night  away, 
And  trials  pass  and  fleeting  time 

Will  bring,  at  last,  the  day. 


THE  LAD  WITH  THE  BARLEY  LOAVES 

SANDALED  with  green  luxuriance,  the  hills 
That  sloped  to  meet  the  Galilean  sea. 

One  voice  alone  the  charmed  silence  fills, 
One  face  alone,  the  earnest  thousands  see. 

Hour  after  hour  held  by  most  holy  spell 

Till  the  day  passed,  and  shades  of  evening  fell. 

Then  they  were  faint  and  weary ;  so  the  Lord 
Touched  with  their  suff  ring  said,  "Give  them 

to  eat." 

And  doubting  Philip,  when  he  heard  that  word, 
Wondered  and  questioned  "Where  shall  we 

get  meat?" 

But  Andrew's  eye  o'er  the  vast  concourse  roves 
To  find  "A  lad  who  had  five  barley  loaves." 

A  stripling  of   few  years;  what  brought   him 

there  ? 

The  wonder  of  some  miracle  to  see  ? 
Or  had  it  been  his  blessed  lot  to  share 
The  Saviour's  love,  and  climb  upon  His  knee  ? 
188 


THE  LAD  WITH  THE  BARLEY  LOAVES 

O  happy  child !  I  know  thy  joyful  pride 

When  Andrew  called  thee  to  the  Master's  side. 

'Twas  Angel's  food  that  mortals  ate  that  day 
Although  no   bright-stoled  Angel  brought  it 
down 

But  from  the  basket  of  a  child  at  play 

And  from  the  little  hands  all  sun-burnt  brown, 

Divinity  did  take  and  bless  and  share 
Five  barley  loaves  among  five  thousand  there. 

Not   the   boy   priest   who   served   the   temple's 
shrine 

And  heard  Jehovah's  voice  call  him  by  name 
Had  honor  half  so  great,  dear  child,  as  thine, 

Linked  with  the  Christ  in  such  a  tender  fame. 
Not  Angels  came  the  humble  meal  to  spread, 

But  from  thy  hands,  He  took  the  barley  bread. 


MUSIC  ON  THE  PIER 

Music  on  the  pier,  through  the  sunny  day : 
List  the  pleasant  strain 
Rise,  and  fall  again! 
How.  it  blends  itself  with  laughter  gay, 
With  the  pattering  of  happy  feet, 
And  the  chiming  of  the  ocean's  beat, 
And  the  children's  play ! 

Music  on  the  pier,  when  the  night  is  fair, 
And  the  summer  moon 
Makes  a  fairer  noon, 
And  a  softer  stillness  fills  the  air, 
While  some  serenade  or  nocturne  sweet 
Times  the  loitering  of  lovers'  feet 
To  a  measure  rare. 

And  so  life  goes  to  loving  and  to  song 

On  the  pleasant  pier. 

No  one  hath  a  fear, 

No  one  hath  a  thought  of  harm  or  wrong, 
190 


MUSIC     ON     THE     PIER 

Though  beneath  their  feet  are  tossing  waves, 

And  the  room  for  twice  ten  thousand  graves. 

Life  above  is  strong. 

Some  One  keeps  the  children  at  their  play — 
On  the  open  pier 
They  have  not  a  fear — 

Keeps  the  mothers  and  the  maidens  gay. 

Some  One  says,  "Rejoice !  be  glad  and  free ! 

There  are  Watching  Ones  continually 
By  night  and  day." 

Music  in  our  hearts — life  is  sweet  and  safe ; 

Music  through  the  light, 

Music  in  the  night — 

What  if  the  sea  of  sorrow  round  us  chafe? 
Some  One  whispers  us,  "Be  of  good  cheer: 
There  are  loving  Watchers,  do  not  fear — 

Trusting  lives  are  safe." 


"IT  WAS  ONLY  YESTERDAY" 

IT  was  only  yesterday 

That  the  earth  was  common  clay — 

Only  clay,  so  brown  and  bare; 
Now  the  chill,  dark  garden  mould 
Is  aflame  with  crocus'  gold, 

Sweet  with  lilies  white  and  fair. 

It  was  only  yesterday 

That  the  fields  were  common  clay. 

Now  the  clay  is  waving  grass, 
Starred  all  through  with  many  a  flower. 
But  who  saw  the  wondrous  Power 

Through  the  fields  and  gardens  pass  ? 

Oh,  how  oft  through  many  a  day 
We  are  naught  but  mortal  clay ! 

Then  some  spirit,  sweet  and  strong, 
Breathes  around  us  airs  divine, 
Touches  clay  to  purpose  fine, 

And  we  blossom  into  song. 
192 


"PERHAPS" 

IN  woodland  ways  now  strangled  with  the  snow 
The  blue,  sweet  violets  will  soon  be  springing, 

The  golden-headed  aconites  will  blow, 

And  in  the  meadows  robins  will  be  singing. 

Then  from  the  streets  into  the  fields  I'll  go ; 
And  my  heart  answered  me,  "Perhaps!" 

Or,  if  not  then,  when  strawberries  are  red, 
And   flag  flowers   stand   among  the  blowing 

rushes, 
When  roses  bloom,  and  in  the  trees  o'erhead 

There  is  a  dreamy  melody  of  thrushes, 
My  feet  again  the  mossy  turf  shall  tread ; 
And  my  heart  answered  me,  "Perhaps !" 

Or,  better  still,  I'll  sail  the  windy  sea, 

Full  o£  large  music,  billow  to  billow  singing, 

And  lie  'mid  broken  lights,  and  sea-drift  free, 
Hearing  in  dreams  of  land  the  ship  bells  ring 
ing— 

193 


PERHAPS 

Yes,  oceanward,  when  summer  comes,  I'll  flee ; 
And  my  heart  answered  me,  "Perhaps !" 

O  heart,  I  said,  thine  is  the  weariest  way: 
Why  wilt  thou  ever  disenchant  To-morrow? 

Time  is  so  niggardly  with  each  To-day, 

Surely  'tis  well  from  future  days  to  borrow. 

Art  thou  afraid  such  drafts  will  be  to  pay? 
And  my  heart  answered  me,  "Perhaps !" 

Then  'mid  man's  fretful  dwellings,  dim  and  low, 
I'll  dream  of  peace,  eternal  flowers  unfading, 

And  of  that  tideless  sea  whose  happy  flow 
Keeps  not  a  note  of  sorrow  or  upbraiding. 

Some  day  I'll  find  that  Happy  Land,  I  know ; 
And  my  heart  answered,  "Thou  shalt  go!" 


THE  PRAIRIE  PATH 

UPON  the  brown  and  frozen  sod 

The  wind's  wet  fingers  shake  the  rain; 
The  bare  shrubs  shiver  in  the  blast 

Against  the  dripping  window-pane. 
Inside,  dim  shadows  haunt  the  room, 

The  flickering  fire-lights  rise  and  fall, 
And  make  I  know  not  what  strange  shapes 

Upon  the  pale  gray  parlor  wall. 

I  feel  but  do  not  see  these  things — 

My  soul  stands  under  other  skies; 
There  is  a  wondrous  radiance  comes 

Between  my  eyelids  and  my  eyes. 
I  seem  to  pull  down  at  my  feet 

God's  gentian  flowers,  as  on  I  pass 
Through  a  green  prairie  still  and  sweet 

With  blowing  vines  and  blowing  grass. 

And  then — ah !  whence  can  he  have  come  ? — 
I  feel  a  small  hand  touching  mine ; 

195 


THE     PRAIRIE     PATH 

Our  voices  first  are  like  the  breath 

That  sways  the  grass  and  scented  vine. 

But  clearer  grow  the  childish  words, 

Of  Egypt  and  of  Hindostan; 

And  Archie's  telling  me  again 

Where  he  will  go  when  he's  a  man. 

The  smell  of  pine  is  strangely  blent 

With  sandal-wood  and  broken  spice 
And  cores  of  calamus ;  the  flowers 

Grow  into  gems  of  wondrous  price. 
We  sit  down  in  the  grass  and  dream; 

His  face  grows  strangely  bright  and  fair: 
I  think  it  is  the  amber  gleam 

Of  sunset  in  his  pale  gold  hair. 

But  while  I  look  I  see  a  path 

Across  the  prairie  to  the  light  ; 
And  Archie  with  his  small  bare  feet 

Has  almost  passed  beyond  my  sight. 
Upon  my  heart  there  falls  a  smile, 

Upon  my  ears  a  soft  adieu ; 
I  see  the  glory  in  his  face, 

And  know  his  dreams  have  all  come  true. 
196 


THE     FLOWER     OF     MIDDLE     AGE 

Some  day  I  shall  go  hence  and  home — 

We  shall  go  hence,  I  mean  to  say, 
And,  as  we  pass  the  shoals  of  Time, 

"My  brother,"  I  shall,  pleading,  say, 
"There  was  upon  the  prairie  wide 

A  spot  so  dear  to  thee  and  me, 
I  fain  would  see  it,  ere  we  walk 

The  fields  of  Immortality." 


THE  FLOWER  OF  MIDDLE  AGE 

COME  now,  and  give  us  dahlias  in  both  arms 
E'en  till  the  topmost  touch  our  throat  and  lips. 
Bright  golden  dahlias  holding  sunset's  charms 
And  red  ones — crimson  to  their  red  leaves'  tips. 
Upon  their  white  and  pink  and  purple  page, 
We'll  write  the  story  of  our  middle  age. 

For  there  are  flowers  for  all.    In  childish  years 
We  gather  daisies  in  the  fresh  green  grass 
Or  blowing  blue  bells  wet  with  dewy  tears 
And  gentian  stars,  that  never  child  could  pass. 
O  blessed  flowers — O  blessed  days  when  we 
With  small  feet  sought  you  o'er  the  broomy  lea ! 
197 


THE  FLOWER  OF  MIDDLE  AGE 

Then  came  the  golden  days  of  maidenhood 
When  Life  was  full  of  beauty  and  perfume. 
And  with  Love's  roses  at  our  breast  we  stood 
And  culled  the  heliotropes  and  lily's  bloom, 
And  bound -the  orange  blossoms  sweet  and  fair 
With  passionate  carnations,  in  our  hair. 

Now,  in  the  August  of  our  middle  age 
We  hail  thee  dahlias  as  our  fittest  sign, 
Thy  stately  splendor  at  this  later  stage 
Befits  us  more  than  rose,  or  trailing  vine. 
So  strong  and  straight,  so  staid  in  all  thy  ways, 
Meeting  the  sun  and  wind  with  steadfast  gaze. 

When  childish  hands  have  held  the  daisy  stars 
And  on  our  breast  Love's  roses  oft  have  lain 
When  orange  flowers  and  honeysuckle  bars 
For  whitening  heads,  will  never  bloom  again — 
Then,  in  the  prime  and  harvest  of  our  year 
We'll  choose  the  dahlia's  circle,  bright  and  clear. 


YELLOW  JASMINE 

Do  Angels  come  as  flowers,  O  golden  stars! 

That  I  can  hold  within  my  small  white  palms  ? 
Or  were  you  dropped  from  o'er  the  crystal  bars, 

Filled  with  the  perfume  of  celestial  psalms? 

Why  did  you  come?    For  fear  I  should  forget? 

Nay,  but  sweet  flowers,  you  would  not  judge 

me  so; 
Are  there  not  memories  between  us  set, 

No  later  love,  no  future  fays  can  know? 

Cool  bosky  woodlands  that  were  Jasmine  bowers 
With  misty  haze  of  blue  bells  up  the  glade, 

Then,  had  I  met  an  angel  pulling  flowers, 
I  had  not  been  astonished  or  afraid. 

Beautiful  children,  innocent  and  bright, 
O  Golden  Jasmine !  for  Love  kissing  you 

I  see  them  yet  with  hair  like  braided  light 
And  eyes  like  purple  pansies,  wet  with  dew. 
199 


HYACINTH  S 

Could  I  have  known — could  I  have  but  foreseen 
How  near  the  pearly  gates  their  feet  had  won, 

How  I  had  clasped  those  hands,  my  hands  be 
tween 
Those  tiny  hands,  whose  little  work  is  done. 

Calm  graves,  lapped  in  sweet  grasses,  cool  and 

deep, 
Where  winds  do  sing  and  whisper  through  all 

hours ; 

O  starry  flowers,  for  me,  Love's  vigil  keep 
With  scent  and  shadow  and  sweet  drooping 
flowers. 


HYACINTHS 

O  BEAUTIFUL  blue  bells !  O  bells  of  blue ! 

O  bells  so  rosy  bright ! 
O  fairy  censers,  swinging  all  day  through ! 

O  lamps  of  snowy  light ! 

Have  ye  no  idyl  of  the  far-off  days, 

No  tender  thought  or  dream,      > 

No  haunting  legend  of  Laconian  ways, 
Or  fair  Eurota's  stream? 

.      .-•.•*._.     -c,^*  v*""'     ~ ' "  •'• 

200 


HYACINTHS 

No  mem'ry  of  that  splendid  youth  whose  name 
Is  still  your  richest  dower — 

That  youth  so  fair  and  sweet  that  he  became 
By  grace  of  gods  your  flower? 

No  tale  of  Grecian  girls,  white-robed  and  fair, 

By  great  Apollo  led, 
With  sacrificial  rites,  and  fast,  and  prayer, 

Mourning  the  early  dead? 

Or  simple  lovers  telling  with  shy  eyes, 

By  dim  Arcadian  wells, 
Love's  sweet  old  story,  and  its  hopes  and  sighs, 

Among  your  purple  bells? 

Ring,  little  bells,  and  stooping,  I  shall  hear 

Echoes  of  phantom  feet; 

Ring,  and  rich  thoughts  shall  come  from  far  and 
near, 

And  make  you  doubly  sweet 


JUNE  ROSES 

MAY  brought  golden  sunshine, 

May  brought  silver  rains, 
Buttercups  and  daisies, 

In  the  woods  and  lanes; 
Lily  bells  and  lilacs, 

Apple  blooms  like  snows, 
Pinks,  and  purple  pansies — 

But  June  brought  the  Rose ! 

• 

Roses  dyed  in  sunset, 

Full  of  amber  light; 
Roses  dyed  at  dawning, 

As  the  dawning  white; 
Roses  pink  as  sunrise, 

Bearing  Love's  device; 
Red-lipped  crimson  roses, 

Full  of  hidden  spice. 

Weave  them  in  a  garland, 
And  while  weaving  sing : 
202 


JUNE     ROSES 

"These  are  garnered  sunshine, 
Rain,  and  airs  of  spring; 

All  the  bliss  of  May-time, 
Sweet  south  wind  that  blows, 

Melody  and  perfume, 
Made  into  a  Rose." 

Weave  a  crown  in  autumn 

From  the  broad-leafed  Vine; 
When  the  old  year  dieth, 

Bay  and  Laurel  twine; 
But  while  charming  spring-time 

Into  summer  goes, 
Weave  the  year's  first  garland, 

Every  flower  a  Rose! 


WHITE  POPPIES 

THE  clear-eyed  Greeks  saw  oft  their  God  of 

Sleep 
Wandering  about  through  the  black  midnight 

hours, 
Soothing  the  restless  couch  with  slumbers  deep, 

And  scattering  thy  medicated  flowers, 
Till  hands  were  folded  for  their  final  rest, 
Clasping  White  Poppies  o'er  a  pulseless  breast. 

We  have  a  clearer  vision ;  every  hour 

Kind  hearts  and  hands  the  poppy  juices  mete, 

And  panting  sufferers  bless  its  kindly  power, 
And  weary  ones  invoke  its  peaceful  sleep. 

Health  has  its  Rose  and  Grape  and  joyful  Palm, 

The  Poppy  to  the  sick  is  wine  and  balm. 

I  sing  the  Poppy !     The  frail  snowy  weed ! 

The  flower  of  Mercy !  that  within  its  heart 
Doth  keep  "a  drop  serene"  for  human  need, 

A  drowsy  balm  for  every  bitter  smart. 
204 


WHITE     POPPIES 

For  happy  hours  the  Rose  will  idly  blow — 
The  Poppy  hath  a  charm  for  pain  and  woe. 

O    mystic,    mighty    flower,    whose    frail    white 

leaves, 

Silky  and  crumpled  like  a  banner  furled, 
Shadow  the  black  mysterious   seeds  that  yield 
The   drop   that   soothes   and   lulls   a   restless 

world ; 

Nepenthes  for  our  woe,  yet  swift  to  kill, 
Holding  the  knowledge  of  both  good  and  ill. 

The  rose  for  beauty  may  outshine  thee  far, 
The  lily  hold  herself  like  some  sweet  saint 

Apart  from  earthly  grief,  as  is  a  star 
Apart  from  any  fear  of  earthly  taint; 

The  snowy  poppy  like  an  angel  stands 

With  consolation  in  her  open  hands. 

Ere  History  was  born,  the  poets  sung 

How    godlike    Thone    knew    thy    compelling 

power, 

And  ancient  Ceres,  by  strange  sorrows  wrung, 
Sought  sweet  oblivion  from  thy  healing  flower. 
Giver  of  Sleep !  Lord  of  the  Land  of  Dreams ! 
O  simple  weed,  thou  art  not  what  man  deems. 
205 


THE  SYMBOL  OF  THE  DANDELIONS 

THE  crocus  cups  were  on  the  downs, 
The  hills  were  green  with  heather, 
The  dandelions'  disks  of  gold 
Shone  in  the  bright  spring  weather. 
The  blue  above,  the  green  below 
Were  glad  and  gay  together. 

Were  glad  as  were  the  merry  lads 
And  curly  headed  lasses 
Pulling  the  dandelion  stars 
Among  the  fresh  green  grasses, 
The  gay,  the  splendid  yellow  disks 
That  grew  in  golden  masses. 

The  springtime  went,  the  summer  brought 
The  hot  and  sultry  day  time, 
The  scented  rose,  the  singing  birds, 
The  sweet  dried  grass  of  hay  time, 
The  dreamy  dusky  evening  hours, 
The  children's  happy  play  time. 
206 


THE     SYMBOL     OF     THE     DANDELIONS 

But  when  the  dandelion  stars 

Were  downy,  white  and  fairy 

They  blew  them  south  and  east  and  west 

They  were  so  light  and  airy. 

Away  they  went,  but  ne'er  came  back 

To  bloom  in  sweet  Glengary. 

Away  they  went  on  summer  winds, 
But  where,  there  was  no  knowing; 
Yet,  on  some  sunny  slope  or  field, 
Next  spring  would  find  them  growing 
To  golden  stars,  to  fairy  domes, 
Meet    for   the   children's   blowing. 

And  even  so,  the  children  passed 

In  spite  of  Love's  endeavor; 

Some  went  beyond  the  star  strewn  skies 

Some,  hills  and  oceans  sever; 

But  to  Glengary's  banks  and  braes, 

They  come  no  more  forever. 

Yet  still  they  lift  their  fresh  young  hearts 
In  old  lands  sad  and  hoary, 
Or  tell  in  new  unplanted  ways 
Their  simple  childhood's  story. 
1  Ah  me !     If  those  more  happy  ones 
Still  keep  it  in  heaven's  glory! 
207 


A    SONG    OF    ROSES 

I  think  they  do ;  both  there  and  here 
One  father's  love  are  sharing; 
The  dying  flower,  the  deathless  soul, 
Have  the  same  Father,  caring. 
'Our  childhood's  blossoms,  loves  and  griefs, 
Our  manhood's  work  and  bearing 
All  help  toward  that  higher  life 
For  which  this  is  preparing. 


A  SONG  OF  ROSES 

GARDEN  of  Roses!    Most  delicious  spot 

Whose  warm  sweet  air  doth  smell  of  Paradise 

Now,  be  all  other  flowers  a  while  forgot, 

The  Rose,  the  royal  Rose,  will  quite  suffice. 

Love  hath  no  messenger  so  sweet  and  fair 
Love  hath  no  message  that  it  may  not  bear. 

Bring  Roses  in  both  arms — deep  crimson,  red. 

Fragrant,  like  musk  upon  a  heart  of  fire. 
The  Queens  of  song  shall  on  them  proudly  tread 

And  sweet  intoxication  re-inspire, 
For  Love  will  still  be  sung,  and  still  will  bring 

His  proud  red  Roses  to  the  Queens  who  sing. 
208 


A     SONG     OF     ROSES 

And  thou  most  splendid  flower  like  Cloth  of 

Gold, 

Yellow  and  bright  as  sunshine  in  the  west, 
Thou  art  for  those  whose  wit  and  skill  unfold 

Whate'er  of  earth   is  beautiful  and  best. 
Fame  makes  a  rose  immortal;  and  a  leaf 
By  Genius  touched,  becomes  of  crowns,  the 
chief. 

And  to  the  proud  and  happy  wife  be  sent 

This  perfect  Rose,  with  mossy  robe  of  green, 

Veiling  her  bloom  with  delicate  content 

Behind  the  rough  but  all  protecting  screen ; 

While  tiny  buds,  clasped  in  her  fond  embrace, 
Renew  the  wonder  of  her  blushing  grace. 

"But  tell  me  now,  what  brow  or  breast  may  wear 
This  fair  pure  miracle,  this  Rose  of  light?" 

Let  sinless  childhood  in  its  unbound  hair 
Or  loving  maidenhood  in  bridal  white, 

Or  best  of  all,  the  still,  cold,  clasped  hands 
That  gather  Roses  in  Immortal  Lands. 


SPANISH  MOSS 

NOT  the  soft  green  moss  of  the  deep  cool  shade 
Nor  the  tinted  moss,  but  ruin  made, 
Nor  the  mosses  that  to  dead  limbs  cling, 
But  the  long  gray  moss  of  the  South,  I  sing. 
Of  the  South,  I  sing. 

See  how  it  sways  in  the  sighing  wind ! 
Yet  close  to  the  tree,  its  heart  you'll  find 
And,  hid  in  its  tangled  depths  of  gray, 
There's  many  a  secret  stowed  away. 
A  secret  stowed  away. 

I  stand  bare-headed  under  the  tree, 
And  the  long  gray  banners  whisper  to  me ; 
What  is  it  they  say,  as  they  lightly  swing? 
Listen !  Of  love,  of  love  we  sing — 
Of  love,  we  sing. 

Dreamingly  I  touch  the  soft  gray  string 
And  wonder  what  love  to  me  will  bring 
210 


SPANISH     MOSS 

When  a  flood  of  light  and  a  rush  of  wing 
Make  brave  my  heart  to  plead  for  the  ring, 
For  the  wedding  ring. 

Dare!    Dare!    Dare!    and    the    mocking   bird's 

strain 

Is  caught  and  echoed  again  and  again 
As  swiftly  he  passes  from  limb  to  limb 
Challenging  Redbird  to  follow  him — 
To  follow  him. 

Cheer !  more  cheer !  'tis  the  Redbird  I  see, 
Answered  by  both  his  mate  and  me ; 
For  no  longer  I'll  wait  with  faltering  heart 
But  will  dare  to  do  and  plead  my  part. 
And  plead  my  part. 


PLUM  PORTRAITS 

ESTHER'S  my  Damson;  But  Helen, 

Like  this  Burgundy  plum,  is  red; 
Red  are  her  cheeks  as  the  roses, 

And  over  her  beauty  is  shed 
Flashes  of  fiery  emotion, 

Wild  music,  and  wine  made  of  tears, 
Laughter  and  singing  and  passion, 

And  pulse  of  invisible  years. 

Rather  this  plum  made  of  sunshine, 

Translucent  as  amber,  and  sweet 
As  the  smile  and  the  blush  and  the  kisses 

Of  the  beautiful  Marguerite. 
Her  hair  is  yellow  as  sunshine, 

She  is  honey  and  wine  and  milk — 
A  goddess  serenely  splendid 

In  a  robe  of  shimmering  silk. 

But  yellow,  or  red,  or  purple, 

No  plum  is  so  rare  as  the  green — 
212 


PLUM     PORTRAITS 

The  color  of  moon-lit  waters, 
With  the  glint  of  lilies  between. 

I  will  gather  the  dainty  Greengage, 
•  And  lay  them  in  roses  and  balm, 

And  send  to  my  lovely  Christine — 
My  Christine,  the  pure  and  the  calm. 

She  is  the  pearl  among  maidens, 

For  the  quiet  of  land  and  skies, 
The  beauty  of  fruits  and  blossoms, 

Are  hid  in  her  fathomless  eyes. 
Her  face  is  a  fair  white  lily, 

Her  throat  like  the  throat  of  a  dove, 
Her  mouth  is  a  scented  rose-bud, 

Her  smile  is  the  dawning  of  love. 

Let  spring-time  give  her  its  song-birds, 

And  summer  its  honey  and  flowers, 
And  autumn  its  wine  and  fruitage, 

And  winter  its  festival  hours. 
For  the  flower  and  fruit  the  fairest, 

And  the  honey  and  song,  I  ween, 
Are  nothing  but  types  and  shadows 

Of  the  beautiful,  fair  Christine. 


AN  APPLE  MEMORY 

THE  white  hot  dusty  road, 
The  field  so  green  and  still, 

The  twittering  of  a  bird, 
The  tinkling  of  a  rill, 

And  spreading  grandly,  wide  and  free, 

The  shadow  of  an  apple-tree. 

"Come,  rest,"  it  seemed  to  say, 

"Out  of  the  dust  and  heat ; 
The  grasses  round  my  roots 

Are  long  and  cool  and  sweet." 
So  free,  so  gracious  was  the  tree, 
I  took  the  offer  thankfully. 

Upon  the  grass  I  lay, 

Green  whispering  leaves  o'erhead ; 
I  ate  the  juicy  fruit, 

Pale  gold,  flecked  through  with  red, 
Then  lay  in  slumber  deep  and  sweet, 
Till  full  of  rest  from  head  to  feet ; 
214 


A     SONG     OF     THE     APPLE 

Until  the  sun  sank  low, 

And  shades  of  evening  fell; 

Then,  rested  and  refreshed, 
"My  host,"  I  said,  "farewell ! 

Farewell  and  thanks,  O  gracious  tree ! 

Thy  guest  will  long  remember  thee." 

I  thought  the  rustling  leaves 

A  pleasant  "Farewell"  sent; 
I  thought  the  loaded  boughs 
Unto  my  greeting  bent. 
O  apple-tree,  so  kind  and  free, 
May  sun  and  rain  long  nourish  thee ! 


A  SONG  OF  THE  APPLE 

OH,  the  Apple-tree! 
The  sweet,  seducing  Apple! 
The  mystic  fruit  of  Eden's  ill  and  good ! 
Pale  gold  and  ruddy  red,  with  musky  scent, 
Like  that  which  blows  from  some  rich  continent 
Of  spice  and  sandal-wood ! 

Oh,  the  Apple-tree! 
The  fair,  provoking  Apple, 
Which  Paris  gave  to  Venus  for  a  prize! 
215 


A     SONG     OF     THE     APPLE 

Then  did  the  swart  Greek  kings  in  arms  combine, 
To  sing  in  deeds  the  song  of  Troy  divine, 
For  Helen's  witching  eyes. 

Oh,  the  Apple-tree! 

The  golden-tinted  Apples, 

Hoarding  the  sunshine  and  white  dews  and  rain ! 
For  such  great  Hercules  was  wise  and  brave, 
Ulysses  longed,  and  far  beyond  the  grave 

Tantalus  sighed  in  vain. 

Oh,  the  Apple-tree! 

The  sacred,  mystic  Apples ! 
The  giant,  mossy  trees,  beneath  which  lie 
Woden  and  Thor,  and  in  Valhalla's  fields 
Eat  ever  of  the  healing  fruit  which  yields 

Their  immortality! 

Oh,  the  Apple-tree! 
The  prophesying  Apple ! 
For  in  his  sun- warmed  core  Love  has  a  creed ; 
And  so  in  every  age  youth  goes  apart, 
With  eager  wishes  and  a.  beating  heart, 
To  count  its  apple  seed. 
216 


A     SONG     OF     THE     APPLE 

Bend,  my  Apple-tree, 
And  give  me  now  my  Apple. 
Thou  sweet  revealer,  show  thy  scented  core. 
I'll  drop  thy  rich  brown  seeds  within  my  hand, 
Slow  dropping  one  by  one,  to  understand 
Thy  ancient,  mystic  lore : 

One — my  Love  loves  me ; 
Two — he  loves  me  not ; 
Three — we  shall  agree; 
Four — I  am  forgot; 
Five — is  coming  bliss; 
Six — Love  will  not  tarry; 
Seven — a  faithful  kiss ; 
Eight — we're  sure  to  marry. 

Oh,  wise  Apple ! 

Oh,  most  learned  Apple ! 
I  wonder  how  thou  ever  came  to  know ! 
Say,  wert  thou  listening  on  one  summer  night, 
Or  didst  thou  guess  ?     If  so,  thou  guessed  aright 

I  surely  ought  to  know. 


TWO  APPLE  TREES 

IT  happened  thus  on  one  green  afternoon, 
When  harvest  fields  were  waiting  for  their  moon, 

And  fruit  was  ripe  and  good, 
That  two  amid  the  orchard  grasses  strayed, 
While  apricots,  and  yellow  peaches  made 

Bright  stains  on  the  warm  wood. 

And  on  a  branch  that  hung  right  overhead 
Two  golden  apples  grew,  flecked  through  with 
red — 

Grew  perfect,  side  by  side. 
"They  are  for  us,  sweetheart:  Love  made  them 

fair 

With  color  of  thy  cheeks  and  of  thy  hair; 
Come,  gather  them,  sweet  bride." 

She  stood  on  tiptoe  in  the  pleasant  place ; 
The  swaying  leaves  made  shadows  on  her  face, 
The  apples  touched  her  feet. 
218 


TWO     APPLE     TREES 

"Now  this  is  mine,  and  this  is  thine,  but  we 
Will  make  of  them  a  gracious  memory — 
They  are  too  fair  to  eat." 

Then,  half  in  loving  earnest,  half  in  mirth, 
They  hid  the  fruit  within  the  rich  warm  earth ; 

And  year  by  year  there  grew 
Two  trees,  that  made  green  shadows  by  their 

door, 
And  bore  of  golden  apples  wealthy  store — 

Gold  fruit  flecked  rosy  through : 

Two  kindly  trees,  that  when  the  children  played 
In  autumn  nights  within  their  scented  shade 

Would  freely  drop  their  store,  , 

Or  shed  with  lavish  grace  their  sweetest  flowers 
Upon  young  lovers  in  the  spring-time  hours, 

Telling  the  old  tale  o'er : 

Two  trees  that  always  thought  one  couple  fair, 
One  aged  couple  crowned  with  silver  hair, 

Who  held  without  a  sigh 

Sweet  sessions,  where  clear  Memory  sat  content, 
Serenely  satisfied  with  life  well  spent, 

And  Immortality. 
219 


SWEETEST     PEACHES 

There  are  two  graves  beneath  two  apple  trees — 
Two  happy  graves,  made  by  the  sweet  spring 
breeze 

With  apple  blossoms  white; 
Lapped  in  cool  grasses  when  June  roses  blow  ; 
In  autumn's  splendor,  or  in  winter's  snow, 

Always  a  peaceful  sight. 


SWEETEST  PEACHES 

"O  PEACHES  !  brown  and  gold  and  rosy  red, 
Upon  celestial  dews  and  sunshine  fed, 

Where  shall  I  find  you  fairest?—- 
Piled  up  with  purple  plums  and  white,   sweet 

grapes 
In  frosted  silver  bowls  of  antique  shapes, 

Half  hid  by  flowers  the  rarest?" 

"Nay,  in  some  garden,  old  and  warm  and  sweet, 
Where  breath  of  flowers  and  smell  of  ripe  fruits 
meet, 

And  leaves  are  colored  rarest : 
There,  through  the  hot  and  eager  afternoons, 
And  through  the  patient  nights  and  dewy  moons, 
Peaches  are  freshest,  fairest." 
220 


SWEETEST     PEACHES 

"O  sweet,  ripe,  scented  Peaches !     Creamy  pink, 
And  filled  with  juices  that  the  gods  might  drink, 

Where  shall  I  find  you  sweetest? — 
Where  Beauty  feasts  with  Wit,  and  Love  and 

Song 
Speed  the  gay  hours  with  dancing  feet  along 

To  time  the  gayest,  fleetest?'1 

"No,  for  the  Peaches'  rich  sweet  mystery 
Only  one  other  lip  should  taste  with  thee; 

So,  in  the  autumn  weather, 
Seek  with  the  One  Beloved  some  garden  place, 
And,  happy  in  her  beauty  and  her  grace, 

Eat  Peaches  there  together." 


BLACKBERRIES  AND  KISSES 

BLACKBERRIES  !  ripe  blackberries ! 

Will  you  come  and  see? 
Over  all  the  woods  and  lanes 

They  are  running  free. 
Blackberries!  ripe  blackberries! 

Will  you  come  and  eat  ? 
Nature  bids  you  to  the  feast, 

Spreads  the  wild,  free  treat. 

Bob  White  and  Bob-a-Linkum, 

With  their  ladies  fair, 
Robin  Red  and  Cardinal, 

Are  already  there. 
Jenny  Wren  and  every  bird 

One  would  wish  to  see, 
Famed  for  beauty,  love,  or  song, 

Join  the  company. 

Sing  and  eat,  eat  and  sing, 
While  the  children  shout; 

And  fond  lovers  'mong  the  vines 
Wander  in  and  out — 
222 


BLACKBERRIES     AND     KISSES 

Wander  slowly,  stooping  low, 

Lest  the  fruit  they  miss: 
Ah !  I  wonder  which  is  sweetest, 

Berries,  or  a  kiss? 

"Which  is  sweetest,  merry  Robin? 

Tell  me  which  is  best." 
And  he  warbled,  "Blackberries! 

Berries  for  my  nest." 
"Which  is  sweetest,  happy  lovers, 

Happy  as  you  sigh  ?" 
Laughing  low,  they  answered  me, 

"You  had  better  try." 

"Children,  who  in  purple  juice 

Dye  your  finger-tips, 

Purple  are  your  garments  dyed, 

Purple  are  your  lips. 
Through  the  woods  and  lanes  and  fields 

Each  a  welcome  guest, 
Can  you  answer  what  I  ask?" 

"Blackberries  are  best !" 

"Blackberries,  of  course,  are  best ; 

Who  would  kisses  want?" 
Said  a  sturdy,  laughing  lad, 

Brown  and  confident. 
223 


CHERRIES     ARE     RIPE 

"Blackberries,  of  course,  are  best; 

What  do  you  say,  Grace  ?" 
And  the  little  lass  replied, 

"That's,  of  course,  the  case!" 

But  above  them  sang  a  bird 

In  a  mocking  tongue, 
"Wait  a  little  longer,  dears, 

You  are  rather  young. 
Birds  who  know  a  thing  or  two 

Well  may  tell  you  this — 
Blackberries  are  very  good, 

Flavored  with  a  kiss." 


CHERRIES  ARE  RIPE 

O  TINY  globes,  holding  in  rosy  sphere 
The  first  delicious  wine  of  the  young  year, 
Perfumed  with  songs,  and  faint  sweet  memory 
Of  childish  hours  when  we  could  shout  for  glee, 

Cherries  are  ripe ! 

Have  we  forgotten  the  bright  summer  days, 
The  tall  ripe  grasses  in  the  orchard  ways, 
The  crimson  drupes,  the  long  green  afternoons, 
The  birds  that  sang,  in  twenty  happy  tunes, 

Cherries  are  ripe? 
224 


CHERRIES     ARE     RIPE 

The  brave  bright  play-time,  all  the  lessons  learnt, 
Sitting  in  sunshine,  glad  to  be  sunburnt ; 
Playing  at  "cherry  pit"  for  such  dear  stake 
That  still  we  sing,  half  smiling  for  its  sake, 

Cherries  are  ripe ! 

Linking  our  idyl  with  the  long-mute  strains 
Of  Amazonian  girls  on  Pontic 'plains ; 
With  royal  gardens  in  Amasia  'old, 
Where  low-browed  maidens  sang  to  lutes  of  gold, 

Cherries  are  ripe ! 

Or  with  the  shouts  that  shook  majestic  Rome 
When  great  Lucullus  brought  the  cherry  home, 
Fruit  of  the  Roman  sword  and  Pontic  brain — 
The  fresh  young  world  still  sings  the  old  refrain, 

Cherries  are  ripe! 

Come,  dye  with  richer  crimson  my  red  lips ; 
Pinker  than  henna  make  my  finger-tips ! 
Thy  mystic  circles  charm  me  as  they  fall, 
And  back  to  the  dead  centuries  I  call, 

Cherries  are  ripe! 


STRAWBERRIES  ARE  RIPE 

IN  the  shady  woodlands  straying, 
O'er  the  pleasant  meadow  lands, 

Little  children,  in  their  playing, 
Fill  with  fruit  their  dimpled  hands; 

And  in  all  the  thick  green  bushes 

Cunning  blackbirds  tell  the  thrushes — 
"Strawberries   are   ripe!" 

Gardens  flushed  with  scented  glory, 

Blushing  rose,  and  lily  sweet, 
Hold  the  same  delicious  story 

Of  the  fragrant  crimson  treat : 
Eager  hands  the  vines  uncover, 
Old  and  young  with  joy  discover 

Strawberries  are  ripe ! 

But  the  fruit  is  fairest,  sweetest, 
In  the  thousand-streeted  town ; 

Then  will  pause  the  footsteps  fleetest, 
Heads  be  raised  that  were  bowed  down, 
226 


WHEN     STRAWBERRIES     ARE     RIPE 

Sad  hearts  smile  amid  their  sighing 
As  they  hear  the  pleasant  crying, 

"Fresh  ripe  Strawberries!" 

For  the  fruit  is  not  a  berry, 
Just  a  berry,  nothing  more — 

Tis  a  poem  both  sad  and  merry, 
Holding  Memory's  sweetest  store. 

With  past  joys  our  hearts  beguiling, 

As  we  tell  each  other,  smiling, 

"Strawberries  are  ripe!" 


WHEN    STRAWBERRIES   ARE   RIPE 

O  DEAR,  delicious  berries!     Did  you  stray 
Over    this    earth    from    Eden's    fresh    green 

slopes, 
Eager  to  come  ere  sweet  spring  goes  away, 

With  your  rich  earnest  of  the  summer's  hopes? 
First  fruit,  and  best,  your  crimson  hearts  must 

hold 
Beautiful  idyls  of  the  days  of  old, 

When  strawberries  were  ripe. 

Of  Roman  maidens,  seeking  you  with  song, 
Their  crimson  lips  still  brighter  for  your  wine  ; 
227 


WHEN     STRAWBERRIES     ARE     RIPE 

And  white-robed  vestals  in  a  joyous  throng 
Laying    the    first    fruit    on    some    household 

shrine. 

Or  Latin  children,  in  their  splendid  grace, 
Holding  green  baskets  in  Rome's  market-place, 
When  strawberries  were  ripe. 

Perchance  you  dream  of  Athens,  white  and  fair, 
Her  busy  markets  redolent  of  flowers, 

Her  veiled  matrons,  and  her  maidens  rare, 
Her  proud,  keen  men,  beguiling  the  long  hours 

Eating  ripe  berries  in  the  porticoes, 

While  ^Egean  winds  were  scented  with  the  rose, 
And  fragrant  strawberries; 

Or  sunny  vistas  in  some  English  wood, 

Before  the  Roman  legions  knew  the  shore ; 
When  white-robed  Druids  blessed  the   fruit  as 

good, 

And  painted  warriors  ate  the  dainty  store ; 
Or  fair-haired  Saxon  girls,  with  eyes  of  blue, 
And  kilted  kirtles,  sought  among  the  dew 
For  ripe,  wild  strawberries. 

Now  I  have  raised  so  many  pleasant  shades, 
I'll  spread  my  feast,  and  bid  them  eat  with  me, 
228 


FAREWELL,     SWALLOW 

Roman  and  Greek,  Celtic  and  Saxon  maids. 

My  sweet,  fresh  berries  ask  your  company. 
The  centuries  do  not  part  us,  we  will  meet 
When  the  clover  blooms  make  the  ripe  grasses 
sweet, 

And  strawberries  are  ripe! 


FAREWELL,  SWALLOW 

OH,  sister  Swallow,  stay  thy  wing, 
And  hear  what  Love  will  say, 

Ere  thou  dost  join  thy  lord,  the  Spring, 
In  countries  far  away ! 

Bright  are  the  lands  where  thou  wilt  roam, 
And  green  the  myrtle's  leaves ; 

But  here  is  built  thy  pleasant  home, 
Thy  nest  beneath  the  eaves. 

Did  I  not  watch  thee  in  the  spring, 

When  skies  were  gray  above, 
And  laugh  to  see  thy  glancing  wing, 

And  give  thee  tender  love — 
229 


MESSENGERS     OF     SPRING 

A  love  that  holds  the  sweetest  proof, 
Unbroken  though  we  part  ? 

For  thou  not  only  shared  my  roof, 
Thou  also  shared  my  heart. 

"Bird  of  Return,"  farewell!  farewell! 

Speed  on  thy  southward  track; 
Where  we  may  roam  none  can  foretell, 

But  may  Love  bring  us  back ! 


MESSENGERS  OF  SPRING 

HOLDING  her  court  among  the  jasmine  flowers, 

Thus  spoke  sweet  Spring  upon  one  sunny  day : 
"Who  loves  me  well  enough  to  leave  these  bowers 
And  bear  glad  tidings  up  the  Northward  way — 
To  set  green  fields  a-growing, 
And  farmer- folk  a-sowing, 
And  hearts  aglee  with  knowing 
I  bring  the  sunshine  and  the  flowery  May  ?" 

"I  will  go  first,"  the  sweet  South  Wind  replied, 
"And  kiss  the  trees  and  make  them  dream  of 
leaves, 

230 


MESSENGERS   OF   SPRING 

Fill  with  rich  prophecies  the  welkin  wide 

Of  daisied  meadows  and  of  harvest  sheaves, 
Of  happy  cattle  straying, 
And  men  and  maidens  haying, 
And  little  children  playing, 
And  scented  gardens,  and  bird-haunted  eaves." 

Then  sang  the  birds :   "We  to  the  North  will  go, 

Each  bird  a  promise  on  a  glancing  wing; 
For  men  do  know  we  wander  to  and  fro, 

Haunting  forever  thy  sweet  presence,  Spring ; 
All  trust  our  ancient  token, 
Our  songs  so  long  bespoken, 
Our  promise  never  broken, 
And  our  glad  news  shall  make  the  wildwoods 
ring." 

So  ever  when  south  winds  begin  to  blow, 

And  elms  with  tiny  spears  salute  the  flowers, 
And  maples  on  the  lawn  blush  red  and  glow, 
And  the  bright  sunshine  smiles  away  the  show 
ers, 

From  woods  with  mosses  hoary, 
And  isles  of  tropic  glory, 
Birds  bring  the  old,  sweet  story 
Of  Spring's  return  to  apple-blossom  bowers. 
231 


THE     LARK     S     NEST 

On  every  tree  there  is  a  singing  bird, 
In  every  grove  such  joyful  melody 
That  the  song-sparrow,  anxious  to  be  heard, 
Singeth  on  tiptoe  in  his  ecstasy: 

"The  Spring  is  coming ! — greet  her ! 
The  Spring  is  coming ! — meet  her ! 
For,  oh !  she  is  far  sweeter 
Than  Summer's  rose  or  Autumn's  luxury !" 


THE  LARK'S  NEST 

THE  Jay  he  builds  in  the  high  beech  top, 
When  the  spring  brings  flower  and  vine ; 

The  Thrush  in  the  maples  swings  his  nest, 
The  Sparrow-Owl  builds  in  the  pine — 

Very  far  up  where  the  fresh  winds  blow, 
And  the  branches  rock  them  to  and  fro. 

The  bright  wee  Wren  in  the  thorny  hedge 
Has  her  shelter  of  wool  and  leaves ; 

And  the  pilgrim  Swallow — kin  to  man — 
Dwelleth  under  the  house-top  eaves ; 

And  the  Oriole  hangs  her  nest  so  free 
Out  on  the  branch  of  some  lofty  tree. 
232 


THE   LARK'S   NEST 

The  Raven  builds  'mid  the  old  gray  rocks 

Of  some  wild  implanted  place; 
The  Eagle  challenges  with  his  shriek 

The  clouds  and  the  empty  space. 
But  all  their  chatter  and  song  and  mirth 

Blend  with  the  noise  and  the  stir  of  earth. 

Only  the  Lark,  with  his  pure  fresh  song, 
Singeth  clear  at  the  angels'  gate ; 

Far,  far  higher  than  any  bird's  nest 
He  singeth  both  early  and  late; 

Yea,  up  in  the  golden  clouds  he  sings, 
With  his  dewy  breast  and  sun-lit  wings. 

Yet  the  Lark  builds  low  in  the  meadow-grass, 
Builds  under  the  blowing  wheat : 

Many  birds'  nests  are  over  our  heads, 
But  the  lark's  is  down  at  our  feet — 

Down  where  the  children's  footsteps  trod 
The  blowing  grasses  and  daisied  sod. 


THE  WINGED  POST 

SWALLOW,  roving  swallow, 

When  you  cross  the  sea, 
There's  a  little  kindness 

You  can  do  for  me. 
If  you  see  my  sailor  boy 

On  the  ocean  way, 
Tell  him  that  I  love  him 

Better  every  day. 

Oh,  you  know  him,  swallow ; 

In  the  early  spring 
Many  a  time  you  passed  us 

With  a  glancing  wing. 
You  were  sure  to  notice 

One  so  bold  and  gay  ; 
Tell  him  that  I  love  him 

Better  every  day. 

Tell  him  that  I  whisper 
Every  hour  his  name ; 

Tell  him  that  he'll  find  me 
Evermore  the  same. 
234 


MY     PRETTY     CANARY 

The  wind,  ho !  the  wind,  ho ! 

Bloweth  fair  to-day; 
Swallow,  find  my  sailor  boy ; 

Tell  him  what  I  say. 


MY  PRETTY  CANARY 

OH,  my  pretty  canary,  oh,  my  golden  bird, 
Thine  is  the  sweetest  song  ever  a  mortal  heard ; 
Thrilling  and  trilling  and  filling 

The  room  with  exquisite  song; 
From  the  sunrise  to  the  sunset, 

Singing  the  whole  day  long. 
Singing  and  singing  and  singing  always  a  jubilant 

strain, 

Pluming  thy   feathers  and  singing,  eating  and 
singing  again. 

If  the  weather  be  dark  and  rainy,  if  the  weather 

be  sunny  and  bright, 

If  the  weather  be  warm  or  frosty,  the  weather 
is  always  right. 

Chirping  and  cheeping  and  keeping 

Thy  voice  in  excellent  tune, 
As  musical  in  December 
As  if  December  was  June. 


MY     PRETTY     CANARY 

Birds  of  a  different  feather  may  fly  far  over  the 

sea, 
But    winter    or    summer    weather    is    "singing 

season"  for  thee. 


Oh,  my  pretty  canary,  oh,  my  beautiful  guest, 
Teach  me  to  sing,  I  pray  thee :  how  shall  I  sing 
the  best  ?— 

Sing  like  a  bird  for  my  pleasure  ? 

Sing  full  of  joy  like  a  bird? 
Sing  without  stinting  or  measure, 

Though  the  song  should  never  be  heard  ? 
Sing  from  my  heart  and  my  soul,  counting  the 

singing  a  duty, 

As  flowers  spring  to  the  light,  blossoming  into 
beauty  ? 

Other  birds  wander  and  sing ;  thou  with  thy  cage 

art  content ; 

Well    pleased    with    its    safety    and    love,    well 
pleased  with  its  food  and  extent; 

Well  pleased  if  thy  song  can  give  joy 

To  listeners  ever  the  same, 
And  counting  their  chirruping  word 
The  sweetest  and  dearest  of  fame. 
236 


DYING     LACORDAIRE 

And  so,  my  pretty  canary,  I'll  sing  in  my  own 

dear  home, 
Safer  and  happier  far  than  if  I  could  wander  and 

roam. 


DYING  LACORDAIRE 

THE  brother  of  Saint  Dominic  lay  still, 

With  folded  hands,  upon  that  pallid  shore 
Where   the   dull   breakers   of   Death's   ocean 

thrill 
The  souls  of  those  that  Earthward  turn  no 

more. 

In  the  dim  west  the  waning  moon  hung  low, 
The  chill  gray  dawn  just  touched  his  dying 

face, 

And  made  the  crucifix  still  whiter  show 
Amid  the  solemn  shadows  of  the  place. 

The    white-robed    brothers    stood    around    in 

prayer ; 

He  heard  them  not — he  was  too  far  away, 
'Til  with  a  sudden  splendor  they  were  'ware 
That  the  great  spirit  parted  from  the  clay. 
237 


WASHINGTON 


They  saw  the  glory  of  the  passing  by, 
But,  oh!     What  greater  glory  did  he  see, 

That  made  him  with  such  eager  rapture  cry, 
"Lord,  open  unto  me !    Open  to  me !" 


WASHINGTON 

THE  Macedonian  Alexander  gained, 

At  the  sword's  point,  a  bloody  world  and  died. 
The  nobler  Genoese,  with  hand  unstained, 

Found  a  new  world,  untrampled,  green  and 

wide. 
But  Washington,  the  greatest  of  the  three, 

Gave  to  mankind  the  Land  of  Liberty. 


CAPTIVE  QUEENS  IN  THE  MARKET 

i 

As  up  and  down  the  city's  ways  I  went, 
I  found  a  place  of  still  and  strange  delight, 

Where  the  warm  air  was  sweet  with  many  a 

scent, 
And  tender  green  the  light — 

II 
A  languid  lotus  land  of  dusky  green, 

Still  with  sweet  heaviness  of  summer  hours; 
A  little  kingdom  for  a  fairy  queen — 

The  market-place  of  flowers. 

in 

"O  fragrant  souls !"  I  said,  "without  a  stain, 
How  musical  were  speech  your  leaves  among !" 

Then  a  sweet  odor  a  sweet  voice  became, 
Sighing  in  sad,  proud  song: 
239 


CAPTIVE    QUEENS    IN     THE     MARKET 
IV 

"I  am  Queen  Rose.  In  bright  lands  far  away 
I  grew  in  royal  gardens  of  delight ; 

Soft  winds  and  sunshine  wooed  me  all  the  day, 
And  nightingales  all  night. 

» 

V 

"O  wondrous  moons  of  Asia !  I  would  fain 
Bloom  over  Shushan,  or  with  rapture  lean 

Upon  the  breasts  of  girls  in  Ecbatane, 
Their  captive,  yet  their  queen." 

VI 

The  pale  large  Lily  lips  then  music  woke: 
"Sweet  was  my  life  upon  the  Nile's  rich  shore : 

O  sacred  stream !  my  golden  heart  is  broke ; 
My  empire  is  no  more. 

VII 

"No  more  upon  thy  placid  breast  I  sway, 
No  more  see  dusky  faces  to  me  lean ; 

In  moonlight  beauty  o'er  the  world  I  stray, 
A  captive,  exiled  queen." 
240 


CAPTIVE    QUEENS    IN     THE     MARKET 
VIII 

"Ah,  it  were  sweet,"  some  perfumed  breath  re 
plied, 

"To  see  my  home  low  in  the  greenwood  set !" 
And  stooping  to  the  mossy  ground,  I  spied 
A  sweet  blue  Violet. 
« 

IX 

"If  I  could  nestle  'mid  the  leaves,  and  know 
The  golden  sunshine  and  the  silver  rain, 

And  hear  the  birds  above  me  singing  low, 
I  should  be  glad  again, 


"Rememb'ring  naught  of  all  the  days  gone  by 
But  loving  eyes  that  sought  my  blossoms  blue, 

And  loving  hearts  that  breathed  my  faintest  sigh, 
Blessing  me  as  I  grew." 

XI 

The  voice  in  perfume  ceased;  then  I,  who  held 
A  golden  charm  of  mighty  potency, 

Said,  "Violet,  thou  hast  in  love  excelled; 
Come,  I  will  make  thee  free." 
241 


THE  GREAT  BELL  OF  COLOGNE 
XII 

So  to  the  fresh  woods  I  took  the  flower; 

And  fed  by  golden  sun  and  silver  rain, 
Hearing  the  singing  birds  in  every  bower, 

It  was  so  glad  again 

XIII 

That  many  a  passer  paused  with  happy  eyes 
To  breathe  the  incense  from  its  blue  and  green. 

Blessed  unaware  by  such  sweet  sacrifice, 
As  angels  bless,  unseen. 


THE  GREAT  BELL  OF  COLOGNE 

i 
SAID  the  burghers  of  Cologne,  "We  have  voted  a 

new  bell, 
A  mighty  bell  the  stress  of  news,  the  passing 

hours  to  tell; 
Whose  tongue  from  the  Cathedral  tower,  shall 

call  a  greeting  sweet, 
That  every  soul  shall  understand,  upon  the  busy 

street." 

242 


THE  GREAT  BELL  OF  COLOGNE 
II 

"And  I  will  make  a  mighty  bell,"  Karl  Wolff  the 

founder  said, — 
A  bold,  wild  man,  with  flashing  eyes  and  helmet 

on  his  head, 
All  clad  in  leather  panoply,  his  manners  stern 

and  rough. 
"I    ask    no    gold,    good    citizens,    the    honor    is 

enough." 

Ill 

Then  on  Schulen-Erhard's  hill,  Wolff's  furnace 

fiercely  glowed, 
And  soon  into  its  earthen  mold  the  boiling  metal 

flowed. 
"In  God's  name!"  said  the  founder,  and  all  the 

crowd  did  shout, 
As  the  fierce  iron  river  came  hiss — s — hiss — s — 

hissing  out. 

rv 
Then,  when  the  bell  was  fairly  cold,  Wolff  raised 

his  mighty  sledge; 
The  people  breathless  crowd  around,  e'en  to  the 

new  bell's  edge. 

243 


THE  GREAT  BELL  OF  COLOGNE 

Wolff  smites  the  mold;  with  solemn  shout  the 

people  backward  drift; 
The  founder's  face  is  black  as  night — the  new 

bell  hath  a  rift! 


v 
Then  once  again  the  furnace  glowed  on  Schulen- 

Erhard's  hill, 
And  once  again  the  mold  was  pierced  for  the 

fierce  boiling  rill ; 
And  once  again  in  God's  great  name,  the  founder 

did   his   work, 
Though  many  a  scornful,  doubting  thought  low 

in  his  heart  did  lurk. 


VI 

Anon,  another  holy  day,  the  bell  again  is  cold, 
Wolff,  dark  and  stern,  his  hammer   lifts,  and 

breaks  the  earthen  mold; 
A  rift  again — then  Wolff  spoke  out — his  black 

face  all  aflame — 
"Since  God  cares  not  about  the  bell,  I'll  try  the 

Devil's  name!" 

244 


THE  GREAT  BELL  OF  COLOGNE 
VII 

This  time  the  bell  was  grandly  done,  there  was 
no  rift  or  flaw, 

And  eagerly  the  shouting  crowd  unto  the  great 
tower  go; 

And  then  a  thousand  willing  hands,  the  mighty 
mass  uprear, 

The  ropes  are  swung,  the  bell  is  hung,  the  burgh 
ers  wildly  cheer. 

VIII 

"Stand  forth  Karl  Wolff,  this  honor  thine,  to 

ring  the  great  bell  first." 
Wolff  seized  the  rope,  and  such  a  note  upon  the 

city  burst — 
A  note  so  wild,  so  terrible,  so  hollow,  rolling, 

loud, 
That  one  great   cry  of  terror  broke   from  out 

the  frightened  crowd. 

IX 

The  women  fled  unto  their  homes,  and  Wolff 

went  mad  that  hour, 
And  in  his  frenzied  agony  leaped  down  from  the 

great  tower; 

245 


THE  GREAT  BELL  OF  COLOGNE 

Yet  still  the  booming  bell  swung  on  all  through 

the  weary  day, 
Until  at  midnight,  solemnly  the  weird  tones  died 

away. 

x 

Long  silent  stood  the  mighty  bell,  for  if  a  finger 
jar 

The  wild,  deep  notes  with  terror  fill  the  trem 
bling  air  afar ; 

So  never  is  the  big  bell  rung,  unless  for  tidings 
dire, 

Of  marching  foes,  of  wasting  storms,  or  spread 
of  raging  fire. 

XI 

An  evil  bell,  for  evil  news,  made  in  an  evil 
name; 

Surely  the  wicked  man  doth  toil  but  for  an  evil 
fame, 

For  still  the  mothers  of  Cologne  with  shudder 
ing  breath  do  tell, 

Their  little  ones,  how  scoffing  Wolff  founded  the 
"Warning  Bell." 


246 


BARBARA  ESK 
A  Ballad  of  Saint  Valentine. 

BARBARA  ESK  of  Hazeldean 
Rode  on  the  Sands  one  day — 

The  shifting  sands  that  lay  between 
Arnside  and  Milnthorpe  Bay. 

Philip  of  Scaur  and  John  of  Glaive 

Rode  on  her  left  and  right: 
John  was  a  soldier  true  and  brave, 

Philip  a  handsome  knight. 

The  wind  came   fresh  from  Solway  Firth- 
Fresh  with  a  scent  of  ling; 

The  sun  was  over  sea  and  earth 
Warm  as  a  day  in  spring. 

And  on  they  rode  as  seemed  best, 

With  joy  at  their  command, 
For  rode  they  east,  or  rode  they  west, 

They  rode  into  Love's  Land; 
247 


BARBARA     ESK 

And  beating  hearts  and  beating  feet 

Kept  time  to  Love's  sweet  tune, 
That  none  were  weary  to  repeat 

All  through  the  afternoon. 

Till  suddenly,  as  home  they  turned, 

John  found  good  heart  to  say, 
"Sweet  Barbara,  surely  you  have  learned 

Whose  feast  we  keep  to-day? 

"Give  Phil  the  ribbon  at  your  breast, 

Or  let  that  grace  be  mine; 
Yet  choose  you  now   which  you  love  best 

To  be  your  Valentine." 

But  ere  the  maid  could  blush  or  speak, 

A  voice  of  warning  cried, 
"O  Glaive !  then  it  is  Death  you  seek? 

Behold  the  Solway  tide !" 

Glaive  looked — the  Sands  with  foam  were  white. 

"Good  Eamont,  turn,  I  pray, 
For  thou  alone  can  guide  us  right 

Across  the  perilous  way!" 


GEORGE  SECOND'S  DREAM 

KING  GEORGE  awoke  from  a  troubled  sleep  ; 

"I  have  had  a  bad  dream,"  he  said  ; 
Then  he  kicked  the  pillows  across  the  room, 

And  the  lords  of  the  chamber  fled. 
No  need  to  wonder  at  such  a  thing, 
For  George  was  a  choleric  little  king. 

But  the  queen  in  her  beauty  sought  his  face, 

And  she  spoke  in  an  accent  mild: 
"What  is  it  that  grieves  my  lord,  the  king?" 

Then  he  grew  like  a  little  child 
And  said,  "I  have  had  a  bad  dream,  my  queen, 
And  the  devil  may  know  what  it  can  mean. 

"I  saw  a  strange  and  beautiful  land ; 

Its  meadows  were  yellow  with  wheat. 
Its  stately  rivers  went  down  to  the  sea, 

On  every  river  a  fleet; 

There  were  lofty  mountains  and  valleys  fine, 
And  the  scent  of  flowers  and  fruits  and  wine. 
249 


GEORGE   SECOND'S   DREAM 

"Hurry  of  trade  in  its  cities  I  saw, 

And  people  from  every  strand, 
But  always  I  heard  but  the  English  tongue, 

So  the  land,  I  knew,  was  my  land. 
Then   I   touched   my   scepter,   and   crown,   and 

sword." 
"And  they  did  you  homage,  no  doubt,  my  lord  ?" 

"Nay;  a  woman  came  who  had  eyes  like  stars 
And  a  voice  like  the  murmuring  sea, 

And  she  said,  'O  king!  wilt  thou  see  the  child 
That  shall  make  this  fair  land  free?', 

And  I  saw  a  child  in  a  humble  cot, 

But  a  palace  or  courtiers  saw  I  not. 

"Then  the  woman  stooped  to  the  new-born  boy, 

And  her  face  it  was  like  a  flame ; 
And  she  kissed  him  once,  and  she  kissed  him 
twice, 

And  she  gave  him  the  George's  name. 
'Fair  madam,'  I  said,  'what  may  your  name  be  ?' 
And  she  proudly  answered  me,  'Liberty!' 

"Then  I  put  my  hand  to  my  kingly  crown, 
For  I  feared  in  that  woman's  sight, 

Yet  she  took  a  jewel  from  out  its  band, 
A  jewel  of  wonderful  light, 
250 


AN     INDIAN     FABLE 

And  that  other  George  lay  in  its  splendid  glow : 
The  dream  is  a  very  bad  dream,  I  know." 

But  the  years  went  by,  and  the  king  "was  not," 
And  the  third  George  reigned  in  his  stead; 

Then  the  gem  was  lost  on  his  crowning  day, 
And  the  dream  was  speedily  read. 

O  splendid  dream;  and  O  happy  morn! 

When  the  knightly  George  of  our  land  was  born ! 


AN  INDIAN  FABLE 

UPON  the  lotos  banks  of  Brahmaputra 
A  great  magician  built  a  wondrous  house, 

And  in  one  corner  of  its  golden  splendor 
There  lived  a  tiny,  trembling,  timid  mouse. 

"Now  be  content  and  happy :  thou  art  welcome." 
"Alas !"  replied  the  mouse,  "I  can't  be  that. 

Do  I  not  dwell  in  great  and  constant  terror, 
Fearing  the  watchful  eyes  of  yonder  cat  ?" 

"Become  a  cat,  if  that  will  make  thee  happy." 
But  now  his  fright  was  greater  than  before. 

251 


AN     INDIAN     FABLE 

"The  dog!  the  dog!"  he  mewed.     "O  gnicious 

master, 
Make  me  his  -equal,  or  my  life  is  o'er." 

"Well,  then,  become  a  dog."     In  a  few  moments, 
Whining,  he  came  to  the  great  wizard's  feet: 

"The  tiger!     Oh,  the  tiger  in  the  jungle! 

How  can  I  cope  with  one  so  strong  and  fleet  ?" 

....     ,  ....'.'   ;  '  .  V,i.;  J'..i,«7v--;«.-'-°*«  •    ( 

"Become  a  mouse  again  at  once,  I  charge  thee," 
The  wizard  said,  with  anger  and  with  scorn. 

"Thou  only  hast  a  mouse's  heart  and  courage ; 
Thy  cowardice  would  shame  a  nobler  form." 

So  have  I  seen  some  mean  mouse-hearted  mortal, 

Set   up   among  the   braye   and   clothed   with 
power,  . 

Making  himself  a  shame  and  scorn  to  manhood, 

Till,  having  gathered  strength  from  hour  to 

hour, 
That  great  magician,  Public  Condemnation, 

Smote  him  upon  his  face,  and  cried:  "Away 
To  thine  obscurity,  poor  mouse-hearted  man! 

How  couldst  tkou  hope  the  lion's  part  to  play?" 


THE  MARBLE  IMAGE 

AMONG  great  solemn  woods  there  once  was  set 
An  image  of  the  Virgin  and  her  child, 

Above,  the  interlacing  branches  met, 
Below,   the   sweet  anemones   ran  wild ; 

And  often  in  the  drowsy  summer  day, 
A  little  lad  came  there  to  dream  and  play. 

His  home — a  grand  old  house  'mid  gardens  rare, 
Where  flowering  shrubs  had  grown  almost  to 
trees, 

And  the  sweet  silence  of  the  perfumed  air 
Was  broken  only  by  the  hum  of  bees, 

The  fall  of  flowers  or  grass  by  insects  stirred, 
Or  the  sweet  singing  of  some  leaf-hid  bird. 

And  yet,  the  boy  loved  best  the  wild  wood  shade, 

For  there  the  blessed  mother  sat  and  smiled ; 

And  the  dear  Christ-Child,  while  he  mused  or 

played 

With  sweet  companionship,  his  soul  beguiled. 
253 


THE     MARBLE     IMAGE 

He  never  thought  them  marble — to  his  heart 
They  were  of  prayer  and  love  and  heaven,  a 
part. 

And  so,  one  day  he  prayed  so  sweet  a  prayer, 
With  small  hands  clasped  before  the  Virgin's 

feet, 
I  think  the  Angels  blessed  him  unaware, 

As    from   his   sinless   mouth   came,   pleading 

sweet : 

"O  Holy  Mother,  from  thy  blessed  knee 
Put  down  the  Babe,  and  let  Him  play  with 
me." 

"I  am  so  lonely  in  these  solemn  shades, 
O  beautiful  Child  Jesus,  come  to  me ! 
I  know  the  coolest  spots,  the  greenest  glades, 
The   sweetest   flowers,    I'll   gather   them    for 

thee  ; 

And  Thy  small  tender  feet  I'll  gently  guide 
To  where  the  fresh  ripe  berries  blush  and 
hide." 

O  strange,  sweet  answer  to  the  sweetest  prayer 
Came  long  before  the  summer  days  were  o'er ; 
254 


CRUCIFIXION 


The  light  of  Heaven  was  on  his  face  so  fair, 
And   Angels  waiting  at  the  open  door — 

When  with  great  joy  he  said,  "Lo!  I  now  see 
The  beautiful  Child  Jesus  comes  for  me." 


CRUCIFIXION 

SAINT  PETER  in  his  Roman  cell 

Sat  musing  through  the  lonely  night; 
A  vision  held  him  in  its  spell 

Until  the  dawn's  first  pallid  light. 
Then  some  one  touched  his  folded  hands 

And  said,  "O  haste,  thou  blameless  man ! 
The  door  a  moment  open  stands, 

And  none  are  near  thy  flight  to  scan." 

Then  Peter,  with  unsandaled  feet 

And  robe  ungirded,  rose  and  fled, 
And  life  and  liberty  were  sweet, 

As  through  the  misty  dawn  he  sped. 
He  had  forgot  his  heavy  debt ; 

Forgot  that  all  but  Christ  was  dross, 
Till  in  the  open  road  he  met 

The  Saviour  carrying  His  cross. 
255 


CRUCIFIXION 

That  piteous  sight  his  footsteps  stayed, 

His  heart  was  faint  with  sudden  pain. 
"O  Master,  is  it  Thee?"  he  said, 

"Surely  Thou  need  not  die  again  !" 
"Yea,  Peter,  if  thou  wilt  not  stay 

And  bear  the  cross  and  shame  for  me, 
I  for  the  flock  must  die  to-day, 

Be  crucified  again  for  thee." 

Then  Peter  kissed  the  pierced  feet, 

His  heart  with  love  and  sorrow  burned; 
And  full  of  strength  and  comfort  sweet, 

Back  to  his  prison  cell  he  turned. 
'Twas  light,  and  soldiers  filled  the  place, 

But  Peter  now  could  count  life  loss, 
For  he  had  seen  the  Master's  face, 

And  joyfully  could  bear  the  cross. 

Dear  Christ,  if  Thou  would'st  have  me  take 

Some  lone  sad  path  of  Calvary, 
I  pray  Thee,  for  Thine  own  dear  sake, 

That  I  may  neither  faint  nor  flee. 
Show  me  Thy  face  with  the  command, 

And  I  can  bear  the  grief  or  pain ; 
Mine  would  not  be  the  faithless  hand 

To  pierce  Thy  wounded  heart  again. 
256 


A.  HANDFUL  OF  DUST 

BEFORE  Pope  Boniface,  there  stood 

Two  men,  whose  hatred  was  their  life. 
One  Guelph,  the  other  Ghibelline, 

Heirs  to  a  century  of  strife. 
One  wore  a  bishop's  holy  dress, 

The  other  wore  a  noble's  sword; 
Guelph  hated  every  Ghibelline, 

And  Ghibelline  all  Guelphs  abhorred. 

They  met  before  Pope  Boniface 

(It  was  a  dark  and  stormy  age) 
With  scornful  passionate  retorts, 

Which  turned  at  last  to  bitter  rage. 
A  while,  Pope  Boniface  looked  on, 

Then,  with  an  anger  stern  and  just, 
Unto  their  feet  he  quickly  stooped 

And  filled  his  hands  with  Summer  dust. 

"Bishop,  and  Noble,  tell  me  now, 

When  sprang  the  Guelph  and  Ghibelline? 
257 


A     HANDFUL     OF     DUST 

And  when  you  both  shall  journey  hence, 
Will  the  world  care  that  you  have  been? 

Have  you  considered,  in  your  pride, 
The  while  you  one  another  spurn, 

That  beggar,  Guelph  and  Ghibelline 
Shall  all  alike,  to  this  return?" 

In  open  palms,  he  showed  the  dust, 

"Oh,  Haughty  Guelph !  this  handful  see ! 
Thou  shalt  ere  long,  be  even  so, 

And  Ghibelline,  this  dust  is  thee. 
From  dust  the  both  of  you  have  sprung, 

Both  shall  return  to  dust  at  last." 
Then,  in  their  faces,  dark  and  proud, 

The  Pope,  the  dusty  handfuls  cast. 

"Hence !  both  of  you !  and  seek  in  prayer 

Pardon  for  all  the  ills  you've  done, 
Perchance,  by  penitential  tears, 

The  heavenly  mercy  may  be  won." 
With  sullen  faces,  they  obeyed 

And  glances  full  of  proud  disgust, 
But  still,  within  each  conscience  lay, 

That  handful  of  reproving  dust. 


"GO  UP,  THE  DOOR  IS  OPEN !" 

(When  Boccaccio  visited  the  noted  library  of  Monte 
Casino  the  monk  whom  he  asked  to  open  it,  answered 
gruffly,  as  he  pointed  to  the  steep  stairway — "Go  up! 
the  door  is  open!") 

YOUTH  with  eager  spirit  bounding, 
Thoughtful  maiden,  calm  and  fair, 
Heard  you  not  a  trumpet  sounding 
On  the  still,  cool  Autumn  air? 

"Go  up !  the  door  is  open," 
Eager  youth  and  maiden  fair, 
You  have  but  to  climb  the  stair. 

Wisdom  musing  mid  her  treasure 
Welcomes  all  right  royally, 
Gives  without  a  stint  or  measure, 
On  her  riches  turns  no  key. 

"Go  up !  the  door  is  open," 
Take  the  gathered  fruits  of  time, 
You  have  but  the  stair  to  climb. 

Lo!  the  splendid  habitation 
Where  bright  Honor  proudly  dwells, 
259 


''GO     UP     THE    DOOR     IS     OPEN* 

While  the  voice  of  a  great  nation 
In  a  shout  of  welcome  tells, 

"Go  up !  the  door  is  open," 
To  the  true  and  brave  who  dare 
With  firm  step  to  climb  the  stair. 

Love,  within  his  cottage  hiding 
(Little  cottage,  like  a  nest), 
Meets  all  with,  a  'glad  confiding         "  ' 
Who  with  him  seek  peace  and  rest. 

"Go  up!  his,  door  is  open>" 
Go  without  a  thought  of  guile,       '  .t< 
He  will  meet  you  with  a  smile. 

;v<iV;  M.ilf.sn  mfm ••jihf     'jr;\..,.', 
Youth  and  maid  with  heart  high 'bounding, 
List  the  voice  you've  heard  before, 
Like  a  trumpet  clearly  sounding: 

"Go  up!  open  is  the  door!" 
Go  up !  Fortune  waits  to  greet  you, 
Honor's  banners  proudly  wave, 
All  doors  open  to  the  grave. 


THE  SAINT  OF  PADERBORN 

CHRISTIAN  OF  BRUNSWICK,  bishop  and  duke, 

Rode  with  his  lancers  one  night; 
Then  were  the  dark  and  terrible  days 
When  God's  church  fought  for  the  right. 
When    the    soldiers   of   the   cross 
Counted  even  Life  but  loss, 
Fought  for  truth  with  fire  and  sword 
Preached  in  armor,  the  word  of  the  Lord. 

Bitter  the  night  and  drearily  wet, 

The  men  were  weary  and  worn ; 
Hungry  and  cold  and  fainting  for  bread 
Near  the  town  of  Paderborn. 
"We  shall  all  die,"  a  lancer  said, 
If  the  Saints  send  not  some  bread." 
Answered  the  Duke  with   kindly   scorn. 
"Pray  who  is  the  saint  of  Paderborn?" 

"St.  Liboire  is  the  Paderborn  saint, 
And  often  have  we  been  told 
261 


THE     SAINT     OF     PADERBORN 

That  his  image  stands  within  the  church, 
Covered  with  jewels  and  gold." 

Christian   laughed   and  grimly   said, 
"Saint  Liboire  shall  buy  us  bread 

In  the  way  of  flesh  and  loaves  and  corn, 

A  miracle  work  to-morrow  morn." 

Daylight  broke  on  the  silver  Saint, 

Covered  with  jewels  and  gold ; 
The  Duke  said  sternly,  "Thou  idle  priest ! 
So  many  centuries  old 
And  no  work  of  mercy  done, 
Nothing  for  thy  Master  won, 
Bishop  am  I  of  the  Paderborn  See 
And  to-day  I  am  sent  to  preach  to  thee. 

"How  hast  thou  dared  through  long,  long  years 

The  Master  to  disobey? 
Did  he  not  send  thee  through  all  the  earth 
To  succor  upon  the  way, 

All  sad  souls,  with  sorrow  faint? 
O  thou  faithless  lazy  saint! 
In  hiding  there  while  the  church  must  fight, 
And  by  bloody  altars,  watch  for  light. 

"Splendid  indeed  are  thy  vestments  rare, 
Covered  with  silver  and  gold; 
262 


THE     SAINT     OF     PADERBORN 

But  how  hast  thou  fed  the  Church's  lambs, 
Cared  for  the  hunger  and  cold? 
What  I  tell  thee  now  is  true 
Thou  hast  all  thy  work  to  do; 
Therefore,  I  bid  thee,  begin  this  day, 
I,  thy  bishop,  will  show  thee  the  way. 

"Circulate  freely,  all  of  thy  wealth, 
Feed  life,  and  bury  the  dead, 
Let  thy  jewels  be  changed  into  cloth, 
Thy  silver  and  gold  into  bread. 
Therefore,  I  bid  thee  to  take 
The  shape  of  Rix-thalers,  and  make 
Good  haste  in  thy  work;  yet,  will  I  stay 
If  thou  hast  aught  in  defense  to  say." 

But  there  was  not  one  word  of  excuse, 

So  he  from  his  place  was  hurled, 
And,  transformed  into  Rix-thalers,  went 
Over  the  sorrowful  world. 
The  hungry  were  satisfied, 
The  tears  of  the  children  dried; 
Then  slowly  Christian  these  words  let  fall : 
"I-do-not-pray-to-a-saint-at-all: 
But,  if  ever  I  do  want  meat  or  corn, 
I'll  remember  the  Saint  of  Paderborn." 
263 


MARTIN  LUTHER'S  VICTORY 

MARTIN  LUTHER,  so  grave  and  good, 
Long  in  the  van  of  the  battle  had  stood ; 

But  when  the  strife 

Threatened  his  life, 

He  was  hid  away  in  the  Wartburg  Tower, 
Hid  by  a  friend  of  mighty  power. 

Noble  hymns  from  his  heart  he  sung, 
God's  word  he  wrote,  in  the  German  tongue. 

In  prayer  and  psalm 

And  thoughtful  calm 
The  days  went  by,  and  his  enemies'  rage 
Scarcely  shadowed  his  life's  white  page. 

Nevertheless,  in  the  Wartburg  Tower, 
An  enemy  full  of  subtle -power 

Found  him  out. 

With  sneer  and  doubt 

He  taunted  the  preacher  from  night  to  morn, 
Laughing  his  faith  and  his  prayers  to  scorn. 

Lenten  tide,  at  the  twilight  hour, 
This  enemy  came  with  a  double  power, 
264 


MARTIN  LUTHER  S  VICTORY 

Upon  the  floor, 

Through  bolted  door, 
Like  a  flashing,  lurid  light  of  flame 
Satan,  the  old,  bold  tempter,  came. 

Luther  sang;  but  singing  was  vain, 
The  Devil  sang  back  a  wild  refrain; 

For  curse  or  prayer 

He  did  not  care, 
At  holy  water  and  mystical  spell 
He  grimly  laughed,  with  the  scorn  of  Hell. 

Luther,  then,  in  a  holy  rage, 

And  strong  in  the  power  of  a  coming  age, 

Left  bell  and  book 

His  inkstand  took, 

And  threw  it  full  at  his  enemy's  head; 
Then,  in  a  moment,  the  Devil  fled. 

For  well  he  knew  that  his  bitter  foe 

From   that    little    inkhorn,    through   the    World 

would  go, 
And  to  this  hour 
We  prove  its  power; 
Forever  the  Devil  will  fly  or  shrink 
From  a  blow  well  aimed  with  this  mighty  ink. 
265 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  WHITE 

A  Tale  of  the  Admiralty 

KING  GEORGE  the  Second,  in  fair  Whitehall, 

Paced  anxiously  up  and  down. 
There  were  angry  words  upon  his  tongue, 

On  his  fierce  dark  brow,  a  frown. 
Hands  in  his  pockets,  eyes  on  the  ground, 

And  a  look  on  his  face,  very  profound. 

And  yet,  it  was  only  a  matter  of  dress 

That  fretted  the  King  with  care, 
For  he,  and  he  alone,  must  decide 

What  colors  the  navy  should  wear. 
But  matters  of  dress  were  no  light  thing 

To  such  a  plain  little  homely  king. 

For  two  whole  days  he  wandered  about 
Snubbing  the  Court  and  the  Queen, 

Shyly  he  glanced  at  the  ladies'  robes, 
At  the  flowers  upon  the  green; 

But  he  got  no  thought  that  could  help  him  guess 

What  color  was  best  for  the  Navy's  dress. 

266 


THE     BLUE     AND     THE     WHITE 

The  Courtiers  whispered  in  little  groups, 

The  King  was  muttering  low : 
"The  Army's  red,  so  it  can't  be  that, 

If  I  had  my  way,  I  know 
I'd  say,  'Jolly  Tars,  any  coat  is  right/ 

And  no  coat  at  all,  is  the  best  in  a  fight. 

"Shall  it  be  green?     Shall  it  be  gray? 

I  always  thought  dress  a  bore! 
I  wish  that  his  Grace  of  Bedford 

Was  one  hundred  miles  from  shore! 
I  know  what  I'll  do,"  and  he  smiled  in  scorn, 

"I'll  send  for  my  tailor  to-morrow  morn." 

So  he  said,  with  a  clearing  brow  and  face, 
"My  Lords,  ere  the  day  turn  dark 

Order  my  horse  (Bedford  can  wait), 
I  wish  to  ride  in  Hyde  Park." 

But  just  as  soon  as  he  threw  away  care, 
The  thing  he  sought  for,  came  unaware. 

For  slowly  galloping  under  the  trees 

In  the  sunset's  amber  light, 
Was  the  Duchess  of  Bedford,  and  her  dress 

Was  a  habit  of  blue  and  white. 
Long  dark  blue  folds  with  a  snowy  band 

On  the  fairest  woman  in  all  the  land. 
267 


THE     BLUE     AND     THE     WHITE 

"Now,  by  St.  George !"  cried  the  happy  King, 

"I'm  a  prouder  man  to-night 
Than  I  have  been  since  at  Oudenarde 

I  led  in  a  glorious  fight; 
I've  settled  a  very  important  thing." 

Then  the  Nobles  bowed  to  the  laughing  King. 

"Bow  to  the  Duchess  of  Bedford,  Lords, 

Bow  to  the  blue  and  white, 
Those  are  the  colors  of  England's  fleet, 

I've  chosen  them,  to-night. 
Blue  for  the  ocean,  White  for  our  fame, 

Both  linked  with  a  beautiful  woman's  name. 

"Joan,  the  Countess  of  Salisbury, 
Still  binds  with  her  blue  silk  band 

The  Knights  of  the  Garter,  as  you  know, 
The  noblest  in  all  the  land. 

Jeweled  and  honored,  they  stand  near  the  throne, 
Those  who  are  worthy  the  ribbon  of  Joan. 

"But  I'd  give  to  the  Duchess  of  Bedford  now, 

What  Edward  never  gave. 
Her  colors  shall  fly  in  every  port, 

Shall  float  over  every  wave. 
Bow  to  her,  Lords,  as  she  rides  out  of  sight, 

The  woman  who  gave  us  the  blue  and  white." 
268 


THE  MARKED  GRAVE 

BOWIE'S  rangers,  out  on  the  trail, 

Had  galloped  from  early  dawn ; 
But  the  prairie  road  was  cool  and  sweet 

And  green  as  a  garden  lawn, 
And  the  strong  air  stirred  in  the  blood  like  wine, 

The  strong  air  scented  with  flowers  and  pine. 

Silent  and  stern  and  ready  to  fight, 

They  followed  the  Indian  foe. 
Till  Bowie  cried,  "Let  the  bridles  fall, 

For  the  sun  is  sinking  low. 
We  must  feed  and  rest,  or  we  shall  fail 

Though  fifty  miles  on  the  Lipan  trail." 

They  had  reached  a  grove  of  mighty  Oaks, 

Into  the  shadows  they  went. 
The  saddles  were  loosened  and  beasts  and  men 

Were  glad  of  their  leafy  tent. 
Said  Bowie,  "Just  take  your  rifle,  Hayes, 

And  see  how  the  land  around  us  lays." 
269 


THE     MARKED     GRAVE 

The  youth  went  forward  with  uphead  step, 

Came  back  with  a  quicker  tread. 
"Captain,  I  found  beneath  yon  oak 

A  man  that  is "    "Dead  ?"    "Quite  dead. 

His  saddle  and  whip  beside  him  lay, 

I  reckon  his  horse  has  strayed  away." 

Yes,  dead  he  lay  in  the  blowing  grass, 

Lay  sleeping  like,  any  child. 
One  arm  was  under  his  curly  head, 

His  lips  still  faintly  smiled. 
Booted  and  spurred,  he  had  gone  to  rest, 

But  looked  like  a  man  that  Death  had  blessed. 

There  was  not  a  wound  or  mark  or  stain, 

There  was  not  a  line  to  tell 
From  whence  he  came  or  what  was  his  name, 

Nor  where  he  was  wont  to  dwell. 
"Well,  no  matter,"  said  Bowie,  "Because, 

Where  we  know  nothing  at  all,  God  knows!" 

They  dug  him  a  grave  beneath  the  oaks, 

And  Bowie,  with  hunting-knife, 
Cut  deep  in  its  living  bark  the  date 

When  the  stranger  stepped  from  life. 
Then  glancing  down,  with  a  solemn  pause, 

Cut  under  the  date,  two  words,  "God  Knows." 
270 


TOM  MOORE 

SAID  Erin:  "At  last  thou  art  come, 
O  son  of  my  heart !  thou  art  come ! 
The  harp  that  in  Tara  has  hung, 
Uncrowned,  unwept,  and  unsung, 
Now  touch  with  thy  passionate  hands, 
And  sing  to  the  deaf  and  dumb  lands: 
Sing  Erin's  songs, 
Her    hopes    and    wrongs, 
Her  loves  and  dreams, 
Her  fields  and  streams — 
Sing,  minstrel,  sing:  through  smiles  and  tears, 
I've  watched  for  thee  a  thousand  years." 

Then,  like  a  strain  of  music  in  the  night, 

The  old  sweet  notes  fell  on  Earth's  drowsy 

ear; 

And  men  paused  suddenly  in  strange  delight, 
And,  smiling,  asked,  "What  melody  is  here? 
What  quaint  old  strain, 
Half  joy,  half  pain? 
Who  is  it  sings 
Of  fairy  rings, 
271 


TOM     MOORE 

And  Freedom  lost,  old  kings,  and  woman  fair — 
Songs  bright  and  free  as  sunshine  and  soft  air  ?" 

Then  turned  their  faces  to  the  dim  North  Sea, 

Where,  on  a  little  isle  of  unknown  fame — 
A  green  sweet  isle  where  all  the  song-birds  flee — 
There  stood  a  minstrel  boy  with  tongue  of 
flame, 

And  back-thrown  hair, 
Face  glad  and  fair, 
And  eyelids  bright 
With  eager  light, 

Singing,  but  not  for  gold,  or  praise,  or  name, 
As  gods  may  sing,  whom  none  may  tire  or  tame : 
"Dear  harp  of  my  country!  in  darkness  I  found 

thee, 
The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o'er  thee 

long, 
When  proudly,  my  own  island  harp,  1  unbound 

thee, 

And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  Light,  Freedom, 
and  Song!" 

So  sang  he,  while  the  birds  sang  overhead, 
And  listening  hearts  caught  up  the  wild,  glad 
strain, 

272 


TOM     MOORE 

Till  in  all  lands  where  Erin's  exiles  tread, 
The  notes  fell  sweetly,  like  a  happy  rain, 

Like  soft  spring  showers, 

That  bring  the  flowers, 

Like  winds  that  pass 

O'er  cool  green  grass, 

And  blent  themselves  with  all  notes  glad  and  free 
In  which  men  chant  the  praise  of  Liberty. 

Thou  need'st  no  keen;*  for  thou,  TOM  MOORE, 

wilt  be 

Heir  to  the  love  of  thousands  yet  unborn; 
But  we  will  keep  thy  birthday,  since  for  thee 
The  joy-bells  crossed  the  death-bells  on  that 
morn. 

Thou  wilt  not  die 
While  minstrelsy 
Sets  hearts  on  fire 
With  wild  desire, 

Nor  be  forgot  when  mighty  words  and  hands 
Have  clasped  the  feet  of  Freedom  in  all  lands. 

*  The  Irish  death-song. 


HERE'S  TO  OUR  STARRY  FLAG! 
HERE'S  to  our  starry  flag!    No  matter  where  it 

fly, 

Over  the  polar  snows,  under  the  tropic  sky, 
Out  on  the  silent  prairie,  or  on  the  restless  wave, 
Over  the  lonely  camp,  over  the  marching  brave, 
Or  in  the  busy  city  where'er  men  fling  it  forth, 
In  the  East,  or  the  West,  or  the  South,  or  the 

North, 
Here's  to  the  starry  flag 

The  flag  that  flies  above  us ! 
Here's  to  the  land  we  love! 

Here's  to  the  hearts  that  love  us! 


Here's  to  our  starry  flag!    Over  our  homes  it 

flies  ; 
Oh,  dear  is  it  to  our  hearts,  and  pleasant  unto 

our  eyes; 

Over  the  little  children,  over  the  maiden  sweet, 

Over  the  toiling  men  in  the  city's  crowded  street, 

274 


HERE'S   TO   OUR   STARRY   FLAG! 

Over  the  court  and  market,  over  the  rich  and 

poor, 

Fair  is  our  flag  of  freedom,  beautiful  everywhere. 
Here's  to  our  starry  flag, 

The  flag  that  flies  above  us ! 
Here's  to  the  land  we  love ! 

Here's  to  the  hearts  that  love  us ! 

If  you   would   know   how   dear,   wander   away 

from  home ; 
Far,  far  east  to  other  lands,  just  for  a  season 

roam, 

Suddenly  wake  to  see,  some  lovely  autumn  day, 
The  starry  bunting  flying  free  over  New  York 

Bay; 
Oh   then   with   throbbing   heart,    or   then   with 

happy  tear, 
You'll  say,  "Dear  flag  of  my  country — dear  flag, 

so  dear,  so  dear!" 
Here's  to  the  starry  flag, 

The  flag  that  flies  above  us ! 
Here's  to  the  land  we  love ! 

Here's  to  the  hearts  that  love  us! 


BRITONS,  STRIKE  HANDS ! 

BRITONS,  strike  hands; 

Though  you  dwell  in  the  Outermost  Lands, 
Yet  you  are  close  to  the  land  of  your  birth — 
Sweetest  and  loveliest  land  of  the  earth — 
Close,  though  you  wander  the  wide  world  apart, 
So  close  you  can  feel  the  great  throb  of  her 

heart 
Beat   hot   with   your   own;   and   you   say   in   a 

breath — 
"Britons  and  Brothers  for  life,  or  for  death." 

Britons,  strike  hands; 
From  Canada's  snows  to  African  sands, 
Your  Mother-land  calls  over  mountain  and  flood, 
You  are  bone  of  her  bone,  and  blood  of  her 

blood ; 
You  were  nursed  on  her  milk,  you  were  signed 

to  her  God, 

The  dust  of  your  forefathers  lies  in  her  sod  ; 
Oh,  answer  her  now,  with  your  soul  in  your 

breath, 

"Coming,  dear  Mother,  though  coming  be  death." 
276 


A     SALUTATION 

• 

Britons,  strike  hands; 

The  strongest,  the  deepest,  the  holiest  bands 
United  you  as  one;  your  Mother-land's  fate 
Is  still  for  her  love,  to  get  envy  and  hate; 
But  you  love  her  more  for  the  stress  and  the 

fight, 

The  world  may  be  wrong,  you  know  She  is  right! 
She  is  right !  She  is  right !  whatever  be  done, 
And  she'll  stand  for  the  right  till  Victory's  Won ; 
So,  Britons,  strike  hands! 


•  A  SALUTATION 

INSCRIBED  TO  THE  SCOTS  IN  AMERICA. 

O  LAND  so  dear !  O  land  so  fair ! 

O  land  so  far  away! 
Now,  Scots,  no  matter  where  you  bide, 

Come  chant  a  strain  to-day. 
To  "Scotland  yet"  your  bonnets  lift, 

Give  her  a  hearty  cheer, 
From  Shetland's  isles  to  Galloway, 
Wish  her  a  Happy  Year. 

Here's    to    the    land    o'    cakes! — fill    your 

glasses, 

Here's  to  her  honest  men  and  bonnie  lasses ! 
277 


A     SALUTAT.ION 

Here's  to  the  land  o'  cakes!     It's  fed 

A  wale  of  noble  men — 
Brave  men,  with  claymores  swift  and  sharp, 

Wise  ones,  with  ready  pen. 
Their  name  and  fame  o'er  all  the  earth, 

O'er  Scotland's  hills  and  dells, 
Is  sweet  and  fresh  as  her  wild  flowers, 
And  pure  as  her  bluebells. 

Here's    to    the    land    o'    cakes ! — fill    your 

glasses — 

Her  men   so  brave  and  wise,   her   bonnie 
lasses ! 

• 
Once  more  "to  Mother  Scotland !"  lads — 

Her  honest  name  and  fame ! 
She  has  no  son  among  us  all 

Will  do  her  wrong  or  shame. 
To  bonnie  Scotland  bonnets  lift, 

Give  her  a  hearty  cheer, 
From  Shetland's  isles  to  Galloway 
Wish  her  a  Happy  Year. 

Here's    to    the    land    o'    cakes! — fill    your 

glassses, 
Here's  to  her  honest  men  and  bonnie  lasses ! 


THE  COLORS  OF  A  REGIMENT 

IN    eighteen    hundred   and   seventy-six,   on   the 

twenty-fourth  of  May, 

The  citizens  of  London  kept  a  glorious  holiday; 
Hundreds  of  thousands  lined  the  Strand,  and 

cheered  with  all  their  might, 
As     the     Seventy-seventh     Regiment     marched 

proudly  past  their  sight. 

They  cheered  the  gallant  Colonel  Kent,  and  they 

cheered  his  gallant  steed; 
Kent  stooped  and  patted  his  horse's  head,  for 

they  were  friends  indeed. 
Twice  they  had  been  in  India,  through  mutiny 

and  wars, 
Once  they  had  kept  the  lonely  ways,  beneath 

Australian  stars. 

They  had  shared  the  hunger,  cold,  and  shell  of 

the  fierce  Crimean  strife ; 
In  danger,  night  and  day  together,  they  had  both 

escaped  with  life; 

279 


THE     COLORS     OF     A     REGIMENT 

So  the  Colonel  was  glad  and  proud  of  heart,  when 

both  for  horse  and  man, 
Along   the    line    of    the    crowded    streets,    the 

"bravos"  proudly  ran. 

Ere  long,  they  stood  at  the  Mansion  House,  and 

there  in  civic  state, 
The  Mayor  and  all  the  Aldermen,  in  pomp  and 

splendor  wait; 
What  was  it  the  Colonel  gave  to  them,  for  each 

uncovered  his  head, 
And  the  multitude  a  moment  stood  as  still  as  they 

were  dead? 

'Twas  the  Colors  of  the  Regiment : — some  torn 

and  tattered  flags, 
Dropping  to  pieces  in  the  hands,  and  yet  right 

royal  rags, 
Blown  through  the  fire  of  many  a  fight,  and 

oierced  by  many  a  ball, 
Caughi  from  the  hands  of  the  dying  oft,  but 

never  known  to  fall. 

They  had  stood  the  burden  and  heat  of  war,  and 

now,  in  their  grand  decay, 
The  regiment,  with  love  and  pride,  were  going  to 

lay  them  away; 

280 


THE     COLORS     OF     A     REGIMENT 

To  the  shouts  of  men,  and  the  beat  of  drums,  and 

the  trumpets'  thrilling  calls, 
They  carried  them  to  the  sacred  peace,  of  the 

aisles  of  old  St.  Paul's. 

The  Dean  came  out  in  his  spotless  robes ;  he  took 

them  with  lifted  face, 
Music  of  psalms  and  thanskgiving,  to  the  altar's 

holy  place ; 
And  the  organ  pealed,  and  the  people  rose  to  the 

voice  of  prayer  and  song, 
That  filled  and  thrilled  the  vaulted  roofs,  and  all 

the  listening  throng. 

Six  hundred  of  the  regiment  in  the  Crimean  war 

were  slain; 
And  the  nation's  monument  to  them  stood  in  this 

holy  fane; 
Thither,  they  took  the  tattered  flags,  and  then  in 

silence  spread, 
The  glorious  emblems  on  the  tomb,  that  shrined 

the  glorious  dead. 

Was  it  only  some  bits  of  bunting  ?    Only  the  men 

who  died? 
That  filled  the  heart  of  the  people,  with  such 

solemnly  joyful  pride? 
281 


BROTHERS 

Nay,  but  they  were  the  symbols  of  honor,  of 

duty  done, 
Of  faithfulness,  and  of  valOr,  and  of  Victory 

nobly  won. 

BROTHERS 

AN  Arab  chieftain  wounded  lay; 

While  all  around  the  rattle 
Of  scattering  musketry  proclaimed 

The  scarce  relinquished  battle. 
An  English  soldier  saw  him  there 

And  raised  his  ready  rifle ; 
Amid  the  carnage  all  around, 

One  life  was  such  a  trifle. 

"And  will  a  British  soldier  slay 

The  foe  that's  almost  breathless? 
Yet  know  that  Allah  hath  decreed 

My  better  part  is  deathless. 
Be  thou,  like  Allah,  merciful ! 

He  turns  not  from  our  pleading, 
But  gives  with  freer,  kinder  hand, 

The  more  that  we  are  needing." 

"Beyond  the  sea,"  the  soldier  said, 
"I  have  a  mother  weeping; 
282 


BROTHERS 

Because  that  in  these  desert  sands, 
Her  eldest  son  is  sleeping." 

"Beyond  these  sands,"  the  Arab  said, 
"My  mother  watches  lonely; 

Six  sons  upon  her  heart  she  nursed, 
I  am  alive — I,  only! 

"I  see  her  sitting  in  her  tent, 

Her  women  round  her  keeping 
The  silent  watch  of  anxious  hearts, 

While  she  is  sadly  weeping. 
Oh,  for  the  desert  well !    The  palms 

In  the  light  breezes  blowing ! 
Oh,  for  the  warm,  sweet  mignonette, 

Among  the  white  tents  growing!" 

"Some  Arab  took  my  brother's  life, 

And  shall  my  vengeance  slumber? 
Full  many  a  life  I'll  take  for  his, 

And  thine  among  the  number." 
"We  have  one  God,"  the  Arab  said, 

"One  Father !    There's  no  other ; 
Bethink  thee  then — whom  can  thou  slay 

That  will  not  be  thy  Brother?" 

The  words  went  like  an  arrow  home; 
He  dropped  his  rifle  slowly; 
283 


OPEN     ORDERS 

For  even  on  a  battle  field, 
The  thought  of  God  is  holy. 

He  gave  him  water,  bound  his  wounds, 
He  said,  "Farewell,  my  brother! 

In  England,  or  in  Araby, 
One  Father,  and  no  other!" 

.     OPEN  ORDERS 

JOYFULLY,  when  freedom  gave 
Sword  and  scepter  to  the  brave, 
Young  Columbia  heard  the  word, 
Grasped  the  scepter  and  the  sword; 
Clothed  herself  with  majesty; 
Crowned  herself  upon  the  sea ; 
Called  her  sons  from  far  and  nigh — 
Sons  for  her  who  gladly  die — 
Bid  them  dig  for  tyrants  graves, 
Thunder  freedom  unto  slaves; 
Slay  with  sword  and  burn  with  flame 
Every  ancient  wrong  and  shame ; 
Through  the  deadliest  night  and  day 
Make  for  Liberty  a  way. 

Rest ;  for  men  so  brave  and  true 
Do  what  they  are  sent  to  do. 
284 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY  TOGETHER 

FLOWERS  for  the  men  who  lost, 

Flowers  for  the  men  who  won, 
The  blue  and  the  gray,  together, 

Out  in  the  winter  frost, 

Out  in  the  summer  sun, 
The  blue  and  the  gray  together. 

Tears  for  the  fallen  brave, 

Never  a  word  of  blame, 
The  blue  and  the  gray  together 

Have  a  quiet  grave, 

Have  each  a  spotless  fame, 
The  blue  and  the  gray  together. 

Songs  for  a  noble  cause, 

Songs  for  a  new-born  hope, 
The  blue  and  the  gray  together  ; 

Bring  now  the  sweetest  rose, 

Lilies  and  heliotrope, 
For  the  blue  and  the  gray  together. 
285 


THE     RED     FLAG 

Out  in  the  summer  weather, 

Out  in  the  wintry  weather, 
Sing  thrush  and  robin  o'er  each  lonely  grave ; 

Sigh  gentle  winds,  and  tell 

To  the  pale  asphodel 

The   blue   and   the   gray   sleep   well — sleep 
well  together. 


THE  RED  FLAG 

NOT  the  blue  blade,  nor  host  arrayed,  nor  flood 

nor  fire  shall  stay  us ; 
From  the  night,  into  the  light,  we  are  marching 

millions  strong. 
Out  of  Earth's  black,  cruel  places  crowd  our 

white,  stern,  angry  faces — 
We,  the  wasters  of  the  gatherers,  we,  the  righters 

of  the  wrong. 

We  have  no  emblazoned  trophies,  crown  of  gold 
or  lion  bold, 

But  our  bloody  banner  darkens  the  pale  stand 
ards  of  the  kings; 

286 


THE     RED     FLAG 

And  we'll  fly  the  Red  Flag  o'er  us,  never  sleep 
ing  in  its  keeping, 

Onward  ever,  backward  never,  'til  it  Equal  Jus 
tice  brings. 

Not  the  Red  Flag,  O  my  Brothers ! 

Not  the  Red ! 
Fly  the  gallant  Tricolor 

High  o'er  head! 
Blue  of  Heaven  and  white  of  Mercy 

O'er  it  shed. 
Under  it,  the  truest  freemen 

Safely  tread. 
Not  the  Red  Flag,  O  my  Brothers ! 

Not  the  Red ! 
Fly  the  gallant  Tricolor 

High  instead! 


FOR  FREEDOM'S  SAKE 

O  WIND!  If  thou  should  find  a  grave, 

By  every  human  love  forgot, 
Where  sleeps  some  lonely  soldier  brave, 

Sigh  softly  o'er  the  spot. 
Rustle  the  wild,  long  grasses  there, 

And  through  thy  chambers  vast  awake 
The  echoes  of  his  parting  prayer, 

Who  died  for  Freedom's  sake. 

O  Bird  !  Your  morning  mass  sing  there — 

There  in  the  dawning,  gray  and  dim, 
And  in  the  gloaming,  still  and  fair, 

Sing  there  your  vesper  hymn; 
Over  that  unremembered  grave 

A  sweet  memorial  service  make; 
It  is  a  Soldier's,  true  and  brave, 

Who  died  for  Freedom's  sake. 

O  Asphodel  and  flowering  vine! 
O  fair,  wild  Roses,  white  and  red ! 
288 


FOR     FREEDOM'S     SAKE 

In  the  long  grasses  intertwine 

A  garland  for  the  dead. 
With  tears  of  dew  at  dawning  dim 

Your  saddest,  sweetest  offering  make, 
For  flowers  may  weep  and  die  for  him 

Who  died  for  Freedom's  sake. 

Take  roses  in  both  hands  and  strew 

The  graves  of  those  to  Honor  known ; 
But,  oh!  one  tender  thought  is  due 

To  him,  who  died  alone ! 
Alone,  with  none  but  God  to  see 

The  young  brave  soul  his  bondage  break ; 
And  yet  he  fought  for  Liberty 

And  died  for  Freedom's  sake ! 


HAVE  YOU  HEARD  THE  CHILDREN 
CRYING? 

HAVE  you  heard  the  children  crying, 

Mother  in  your  home  at  rest; 
With  your  baby  softly  lying 

In  the  covert  of  your  breast? 
Have  you  heard  the  children  crying, 

Everywhere  that  Huns  have  stood, 
Slashing,  slaying,  as  they  trampled 

Red,  wet-shod  in  children's  blood? 

Have  you  heard  the  children  crying, 

For  their  mothers  far  away  ? 
Dead,  maltreated  on  the  roadside ! 

Could  they  hear  their  children  pray? 
But  Thou  heard,  O  Child  of  Mary ! 

Heard  the  cry  for  mothers  slain, 
And  Thou  heard  the  mothers,  dying, 

Call  on  Thee  in  mortal  pain. 

Women,  listen  not  to  music, 
Let  all  pleasure  pass  you  by ; 
290 


A    WAR    CALL    TO    THE    MEN    OF    ISRAEL 

If  God  gave  you  souls  for  mothers 
You  must  hear  the  children  cry! 

You  must  send  some  love  and  comfort 
To  the  homes  where  Huns  have  stood, 

Slashing,  slaying,  as  they  trampled, 
Red,  wet-shod  in  children's  blood. 


A  WAR  CALL  TO  THE  MEN  OF  ISRAEL 
Ps.    xxiv.    7. 

To  arms!     You  sons  of  Abraham! 

You  men  of  Jesse's  root  and  stem ! 
The  shout  and  roar  of  battle  sounds 
Around  your  old  Jerusalem. 

From  Dan  unto  Beersheba  sing — 
"Lift  up  your  heads,  O  gates,  and  bring 
The  Lord  of  Hosts !  thy  King  of  Glory  in !" 

You've  wandered  far,  you've  wandered  near, 

You've  had  no  certain  dwelling  place; 
Jehovah  still  has  been  your  home 

And  kept  secure  your  ancient  race. 
Now,  leave  your  love  and  gold  and  gain — 
Surely  your  God  calls  not  in  vain — 
"Lift  up  the  heads  of  all  your  gates, 
And  let  the  King  of  Glory  in!" 
291 


A    WAR    CALL    TO    THE    MEN    OF    ISRAEL 

Vengeance  is  His.     He  will  repay 

Your  every  wrong  and  slight  and  pain ; 
Nations  shall  honor  you,  and  say 

"The  streams  flow  Zionward  again !" 
The  rose  on  Sharon's  plain  shall  grow, 
The  lily  of  the  field  shall  blow, 

When  you  lift  up  all  gates  and  sing, 
"Bring  now  the  King  of  Glory  in!" 

Oh,  men  of  Israel !     All  delay 

Is  wrong  and  shame  unto  your  Lord : 
You  should  be  foremost  in  the  fray, 
He  counts  upon  your  faith  and  sword ; 
Then  lift  the  gates  closed  tight  within 
And  "everlasting  doors"  shall  bring 
The  Lord  of  Hosts,  the  God  of  Battles  in ! 


AT  THE  LAST 

I  AM  very  old  now,  my  children, 

And  I  sit  by  the  fire  all  day, 
And  the  journey  being  nearly  over, 

I  think  of  what  pass'd  by  the  way. 
Go  back  to  its  very  beginning, 

The  little  stone  house  by  the  sea ; 
There  my  mother's  wee  barefooted  lad 

First  tottered  away  from  her  knee. 

Far  away,  far  away,  since  that  hour, 

I've  wandered  in  many  a  land ; 
But,  children,  lately  I've  often  thought 

I  have  felt  the  touch  of  her  hand. 
It  may  be  now  that  I  sit  and  rest, 

And  the  battle  of  life  is  o'er, 
She  is  watching  to  meet  her  weary  son, 

Is  waiting  for  me  on  the  shore. 

It  seems  so  strange  that  gold  and  land 
Is  as  little  to  me  at  last 
293 


AT     THE     LAST 

As  my  balls,  and  books,  and  eager  games, 
When  the  days  of  my  youth  were  past. 

If  I  think  of  a  city  that  I  have  seen, 
If  I  think  of  my  power  or  gain, 

They're  only  frames  to  a  loving  face, 
Or  the  links  in  a  golden  chain, 

That  binds  my  soul  to  your  mother's  soul, 

In  the  home  of  her  bliss  above ; 
Oh,  children  dear !  when  you  come  to  die, 

The  whole  of  your  treasure  is  Love. 
So,  quietly  sit  by  the  fire, 

And  life  is  a  sieve  that  I  hold, 
And  my  treasures  like  dross  pass  away, 

It's  only  my  love  that  is  gold. 

Would  I  care  for  the  trumpet  of  Fame? 

Or  the  keys  of  a  nation  to  hold  ? 
Would  I  care  for  the  fairest  of  women? 

Would  I  value  a  measure  of  gold  ? 
Tis  only  your  love  I  can  carry, 

When  I  go  to  your  mother  above ; 
Oh,  children  dear !  when  you  come  to  die, 

The  whole  of  your  treasure  is  Love! 


A  WRITER'S  QUESTION 

A  CHILD  before  a  mirror,  thoughtfully 
Pondered  this  question :  "Which  of  them  is  me  ?" 

So  have  I  wondered,  with  a  curious  sigh, 
About  the  Woman,  who  in  tale  and  song 
Is  ever  present  to  my  fantasy. 
She  is  so  sad  and  sweet,  so  brave  and  strong, 
I  needs  must  love  her ;  and  I  ask  my  heart : 
"Is  this  fair  phantom  that  I  always  see 
The  Woman  that  /  was?    Or  yet  shall  be  ?" 


(1) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


41584 


UC  SOUTHS*  HKIWW.  UBRARY  F WX'TY 

HI  Illlllllll 

"A" 001  374  589    8 


